


Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

by frkmgnt1



Series: Evolution AU [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Complete, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Slow Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 131,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frkmgnt1/pseuds/frkmgnt1
Summary: Snow has something he needs to say. Lightning cannot hear it. This story was written before FFXIII-2 & Lightning Returns. Story is set in a post FFXIII universe, where humanity is trying to build a life for themselves on Gran Pulse after the events of the first game. It was on hiatus for 8 years, and I'm finishing it now, and cross-posting the first 10 chapters here. The last 7 chapters will be uploaded simultaneously (essentially).  Additional warnings to be added as needed, and rating may increase eventually.
Relationships: Lightning/Snow Villiers, Serah Farron/Snow Villiers
Series: Evolution AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677478
Comments: 40
Kudos: 38





	1. A Tedious Argument

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 Fan Art by AmedamaCherry

Disclaimer: These characters are the property of Square Enix, et al. I make no claims to anything but the unabashed angst herein.  
This story started life as a one shot over on LJ and is growing. And growing. So, yes, I did just post my third In Progress FFXIII story. And for some reason, it really wanted to be a...Romance?  
Warning: Here there be pairings, romance and angst galore. Love unfulfilled, etc, etc. Spoilers for the entire game, including the ending. I'm gearing up for another long one here, so don't expect a quick and easy resolution. Slow buildup is how I roll.

Pairing: Snow/Lightning, Snow/Serah.

This story is not part of my story Evolution, though I'd say the relationship between these two characters in Evolution sparked this story. Confused? Me too!

(Story originally written and posted in January 2011; updated March 2020)

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"The saddest thing in the world, is loving someone who used to love you."  
-Anonymous

**Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?**

Chapter 1  
 _ **A Tedious Argument**_

She snaps awake with panic bubbling up inside her. She blinks to clear her mind. Lightning feels the goose flesh all over her body, feels the tiny hairs standing up on the back of her neck. She stays on her back in her bed, keeps her breathing even and scans her bedroom for whatever it is that roused her. She listens for other breathing, hears nothing and rolls in one smooth move from beneath her warm blankets to her knees beside the bed. She slides her hand under the bed, feels the grip of her gunblade and pulls it, holds it at the ready beside her. She rises with every ounce of predatory grace she possesses and moves into the corner, waiting for whomever or whatever woke her to make a move. She's ready.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Someone pounds on her door from the outside. She jumps, feels her heart pound wildly in her chest and throat. Then she feels her face heat with embarrassment over being so jumpy.

She heaves a sigh, glances at the clock and frowns at it. It's way too late to even be considered the middle of the night anymore, and far too early to be morning yet. This is an ungodly hour, and there's no excuse for visitors. Who the hell is knocking at the door at...3:18 am?

Lightning relaxes as she heads to the door, but she keeps her Edged Carbine in her hand. The house is cold and drafty and makes the bare skin of her legs and arms prickle. The concrete floor is frigid beneath her bare feet, reminding her once again that she needs to get some rugs in this house. She glances at the ratty couch and collapsing coffee table. And some decent furnishings. She's been living here for months and the place still looks like a temporary dwelling. It's absurd.

She's absurd.

More pounding on the door and Lightning pauses mid-stride. Whatever this is cannot be good. Maybe she should ignore it. She debates a moment before deciding that she can handle whomever or whatever it is that stands on the other side of her door. She's an ex-Guardian Corps and ex-l'Cie. She's defeated monsters that would destroy humanity. There's very little she can't handle anymore. She reaches for the knob and hauls the door open as the next round of banging starts. Her heart stutters and wrenches.

She was wrong.

"Snow?" He stands with his head down and his fist raised in the interrupted act of banging on her door. He glances up at her once then looks back at his boots. She looks back at the clock then looks at him again. She half expects him to evaporate because there is no reason on _any_ world that would make him standing at her doorway at _any_ time acceptable, let alone at 3:21 am. "What the hell?" she snaps, and then feels a sickening realization dawn. Her irritation disappears as she thinks of the only reason he might come to her door in the middle of the night. Her stomach flips. "Is it Serah? Has something happened?"

"I love Serah!" Snow declares.

Lightning stares at him in an attempt to divine the truth. His eyes are glassy, refusing to meet hers, but there's no sign that he's been crying. His cheeks and nose are red from the cold, not from fighting; his fists and jaw are clenched. There's no sign of battle on him anywhere. No blood. No bruising. Nothing to indicate why he might have come to her door in the middle of the night. Nothing in his look or his demeanor that tells her why he's standing here or what he's thinking. Before tonight, Lightning would have been positive that she could read Snow. He's a fairly simple guy, all in all. Not to mention that she spent months travelling around with him in fairly close quarters, fighting back to back and side by side. Reading his body language is second nature to her. But as she stares at him now, she's clueless.

"I love Serah!" Snow repeats. Lightning feels her eyes bug, confusion filling every molecule of her exhausted mind.

"I...know?" It comes out as a question not because she questions the veracity of the statement, but the point of it. "Did you come to my house at 3:30 in the morning to tell me that you love Serah? Because I gotta tell you, Snow, I'm starting to think you've taken one too many hits to the head."

"No," he shakes his head. Then he nods, "Yes." Now she's concerned. Confusion and disorientation are signs of concussion. But he doesn't seem injured in any way. If he were drunk, she'd be able to smell it on him. Not to mention that being drunk might provide a reason for this odd and disconcerting behavior. Not an excuse, mind; but a reason. Alcohol has a tendency to make bad ideas seem fantastic, especially in the middle of the night. She knows this from unfortunate experience.

But he's stone sober and nonsensical at her doorstep in the middle of the night for no discernible reason. "Can I come in? It's cold out here."

Now that he mentions it, she realizes that she's freezing. It's the middle of winter after all and she's in her pajamas and bare feet standing with the frigid air pouring into her house. Her feet are numb from the blasting cold air. Her legs and arms burn with the cold. She shivers and bounces from foot to foot as she steps aside and motions him in with the hand holding her Edged Carbine. He steps through the door and she locks it behind him.

"Gonna shoot me?" Snow jokes as he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the coat rack. She blinks a few times, stumped, until she follows his gaze to the weapon in her hand. _Oh._

"I haven't decided." He laughs at that. The familiar sound warms her for a moment before she remembers that she's confused, tired and aggravated. "What the hell are you doing here, Snow? It's the middle of the damn night!"

"Can I sit down?" He stands there looking at his feet in her hallway, looking for all the world like someone just kicked his damn puppy. She barks out an incredulous laugh, wonders how deep down the rabbit hole they are going to travel before she can go back to bed, crawl under her covers and go back to sleep.

"Yeah sure, why not? Have a seat." She doesn't bother to hide the sarcasm. Screw him if he can't deal with it. She gestures to the couch and watches as he slinks down onto it. She clicks the safety back on her Edged Carbine, looks around for a moment for a place to put it, realizes that there is no place to put it and just holds it. She turns her attention back to her uninvited guest.

He looks around the room, eyes roving over the ratty furniture, the crappy lamps, the concrete floors that still have no rugs. She feels her face flush with embarrassment at her shoddy living conditions before she gets angry all over again. What right did he have to come to her house and make her feel ashamed of her shitty house-keeping skills, or her miserable furniture? She'd been happily sleeping in her goddamn bed! "What the hell are you doing here, Snow?"

He looks at her and then glances away. She's starting to get really worried now. Even for him, this is screwed up behavior. "Would you sit down?" he asks and gestures to the couch next to him. "You're making me nervous." Her jaw drops.

"I'm making you nervous? Are you insane?" She starts pacing now to burn off the nervous energy. "Would you tell me what's going on before I change my mind and shoot you, after all?"

He sits on the couch and picks at a small hole in the knee of his pants. His leg bounces up and down. He drums his fingers on his kneecaps. He grinds his teeth. He won't look at her. He opens his mouth once or twice in an aborted effort to speak before snapping it shut again. She feels her anxiety grow with each second of tense silence. Whatever is going on here can't be good.

Nothing good happens in the middle of the night. Not to her. Ever. It's, like, a rule she lives by.

She decides to try a different tactic. She pads over to him on numb, bare feet, places her Edged Carbine on the crappy table beside the crappy couch, kneels before him so she can meet his eyes and says, "Did something happen to Serah? Snow?"

Snow shakes his head, remains silent and her patience disappears. She stands up and stamps her foot, "If something has happened to my sister and you're dicking around instead of telling me, I _will_ shoot you! Do you understand me?"

"Serah is fine," Snow says and Lightning feels the knot inside her untwist. "Serah is wonderful." Are they back to this again? He really did come at oh three thirty to wax poetical about her sister.

"I know. You love Serah." She is frustrated, not bitter. She hopes that it sounds that way. "So what the hell are you doing here?"

"Aren't you listening?" She stares at him wide-eyed and then she rushes forward and grabs his head, yanks off his bandanna and runs her fingers over his skull looking for injuries. On Snow's most irritating day, he's never made this little sense before. There must be something wrong with him.

"What happened, Snow?" she asks. She waits. There's a new knot of worry forming in her gut. How did he manage to get himself injured? "Where are you hurt?" He grabs her wrists and pulls them away from his head and down to his chest. He looks up at her to meet her eyes and she sees something there that makes her whole body heat and cool, flush and pale at once.

_Oh God!_

"Don't you get it, Light?" He threads his fingers through hers and she pulls her hands to extricate them from his grip. He holds firm. "Serah is wonderful, and I love her, but—"

"Shut up!" She says and yanks her hands away from him, feels his blunt nails cut a groove into her flesh from the force of their separation. She needs to get as far away from him as possible. Obviously, he's lost his mind somehow. Something has possessed him, or hijacked his brain. "Don't you dare say anything right now!"

"I have to." She shakes her head at him.

"No. You don't. You can't. You shut up and get the hell out of my house right now!" She stands on the far side of the room and points at her door. "You go home to your fiance. My sister! And you keep your promise to make her happy."

"I can't," he says, sounding bereft. Like he's been trying all along to do just that and it isn't working.

"Oh yes, you can. Whatever this is, Snow, it doesn't mean anything! _Nothing!_ " She feels like she's going to throw up all over the floor. She wonders for a moment if maybe not putting down rugs was just an act of really excellent foresight. Because puke stinks and it's a pain in the ass to clean out of rugs. She's learned that one the hard way raising a teenage sister.

"Lightning—"

"You shut up," she points at him. She runs fingers through her hair. (Her tangled, un-brushed hair.) "I mean it." She chokes on the last word, feels hysteria frothing up inside her. She can't do this! She storms into her kitchen without giving him a second glance. She needs a drink! She feels hot tears burning in her eyes and she sniffles and snorts once as she pulls out a glass and pours out a tall glass of...something foul that Fang gave her on their journey. She swallows, gags, and swallows another mouthful. She's trembling all over, only not from the cold anymore. She feels his hand on her shoulder and she shrugs him off, slams her glass down hard enough to slosh the drink over the top and spill it all over her hand, turns around and shoves him as hard as she can. He stumbles back two steps.

"What the hell are you thinking?" She yells. "How can you do this to m...my sister?" _How can you do this to me? How dare you ever mention this to me? How dare you come to my house and tear all the scabs off all my wounds?_ She steps forward and pokes a finger in his chest. "Serah deserves better than this, Snow!" That she means. "You promised—"

The words break like glass on concrete. She inhales a breath that becomes a sob. She buries her face in her hands. She needs to pull herself together. This won't do. What the hell is happening here? There is no world where this is fair or acceptable. She hasn't done anything to deserve this sort of treatment.

"Lightning," Snow whispers and steps toward her. Her heartbreak disappears into the inferno of her infinite rage. Anger settles her, gives her a focus. She clenches a fist and lets it fly, delivers a right hook that sends Snow flailing into the cobbled together pile of wood that serves as her kitchen table. He lands on his back on the table and it collapses into toothpicks and kindling beneath him. The clatter and bang of furniture breaking makes her feel great. She refuses to wince as he rolls his head from side to side, sits up and shakes it off like a wet dog. She stares at him for a moment as he groans, sits up and rubs his jaw. He hauls himself back to his feet, plucks a few splinters from his pants, turns and gives her his best smirk. "Nice table."

She fights the smile that tugs at her mouth, presses instead on her right pinkie with her left hand. She gasps at the unexpected fiery pain and Snow steps forward again. She steps back, refusing to allow him to get near her, and he holds his hands up in a surrendering gesture before saying, "Can I see your hand? Please?"

"It's fine." She replies, turns around and grabs her glass and downs the foul liquor inside it. The awful crap burns its way down her throat to land like a hot mess in her empty stomach.

He stands beside her and looks at her rapidly swelling and bruising finger. "It's broken." He slips the fingers of his left hand beneath her palm and lifts the hand, manipulates the pinkie and ring finger until she winces. "It's a boxer's fracture. You need ice. And to learn how to punch."

"I know how to punch." She yanks her hand from his grasp and jerks open the freezer door to grab the ice bucket.

"I beg to differ. People who know how to punch, know how to injure their opponents and not themselves. People who don't know how to punch, break their own fingers."

"Get the hell out of my house, Snow!" She grabs the dirty dishtowel and fills it with a half dozen ice cubes before balling it up and putting it on hand. The cold makes the pain flare up and she groans at the contact. God, she hates him right now! She really wishes she could go back to hating him all the time.

"Where's your first aid kit?" Snow asks, ignoring her outrage.

"Just _GET OUT_!" She hollers. She can't do this with him in her house. He's managed to upend her life in under twenty minutes. He ignores her shouting.

"Look, Light, you need to stabilize those fingers or you'll make the injury worse. So stop being a stubborn bitch, and tell me where your first aid kit is! You know what? Never mind!" He throws his hands up and storms out of the kitchen; she hears the telltale slam of the door.

She stands agog for a moment before snapping her jaw shut. Snow hasn't called her names since...the Purge? Since before their journey together. Before they got to know one another at all. He may not even have called her names then. (At least, not to her face.) She heaves a shaky sigh, chews on her bottom lip for a moment, dumps the ice out of her towel into her sink, and feels all her barriers start collapsing. Her insides are wobbling like jello. She turns the water on, grabs her dirty glass from the counter, and the sponge, and scrubs the foul liquor from the inside and outside of the glass.

Her whole body is shaking and her eyes are burning. She wipes at them with the back of her left hand, feels the sob that's been building inside her tear her apart on its way out. She holds her breath to stop this madness, but the next gut-wrenching moan breaks through the dam she's erected and is all the more painful for it. It's like an explosion in her chest that sucks her breath and will from her.

She slides to her knees on the miserable, stained linoleum, presses her forehead to the pressboard of the cabinet, and weeps. Large, mournful, painful cries that make her feel like she's turning inside out. She thumps her head against the cabinet, feels the small pain blossom on her forehead and decides that she likes the distraction. Finds that the physical pain distracts her from the internal ones, and quells the sadness. She lifts her head and thumps it again, this time harder.

Each thump gives her back some control, lets her forget her sorrow in favor of the pain. She's breathing hard now, but she's got some control back. The tears have stopped overflowing, but they still blur her vision as they pool in her eyes. She needs more pain. More control. She looks at her broken hand, now swelling and turning red and blue with bruising. She clenches the fist, feels the pain all the way up to her shoulder and raises it to thump against the cabinet.

A hand grabs hers before it makes contact and she startles, yelps and kicks out, catching her assailant the knee and forcing him to join her on her linoleum floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" Snow yells at her.

"What the hell are you doing _here_?" She'd heard him leave. She knows she did. She should have locked the goddamn door. What was she thinking? "You left! Why are you back?"

Snow looks confused, then his face softens in that frustrating and endearing way. "I was looking for your first aid kit!" She can't look at him anymore. He's shredded all her defenses and he'll see right through her. She looks away from him, stares at her toenails. The polish looks a bit dull, and there's a chip in the paint on her big toenail. She needs to fix her feet. She looks like a mess. "Did you really think I'd just leave you here when you hurt yourself?" His voice is so soft. He may as well grab a knife and gut her now. It would be kinder.

Snow doesn't wait for an answer. Or wait for her to look at him, for that matter. He stands up, moves around behind her and says, "Come on. Up you come." He lifts her to her feet and steps away, knowing that touching her is a bad idea. She stands like a moron in the middle of her kitchen while Snow picks up the first aid kit from where it fell on the floor during his tumble, and looks around her ruined kitchen. The table is a pile of debris. The single chair doesn't look like it would hold his weight. "Alright. Living Room it is, then." He looks at her and says, "After you."

She stares at him for a moment like he's some alien from another planet rather than a man she's known for the better part of a year. She cannot understand why he has chosen to upset their universe in this manner. She also can't think very clearly with the pain emanating from her right hand. She precedes him into the living room, flicks on the overhead light and plops down on the couch. The piece of crap creaks and groans under her weight and she's pretty sure a spring just broke and stuck her in her ass. Snow strolls in after her, gives the 'coffee table' the stink eye before shoving it aside with one foot and sitting on the floor. He holds out his hand palm up and looks at her expectantly. "May I?"

She snarls at him, and he abandons his attempts at civility and grabs her by the wrist to examine her fingers. "Nice job you did here." He manipulates her pinkie finger and pain flares through her hand up to her forearm. She stiffens but doesn't give him the satisfaction of wincing. He still glances up at her and whispers, "Sorry." He repeats the action with her ring finger. The movement hurts but nowhere near as much. "Looks like you got lucky and only broke the little one."

"Real lucky," she mumbles. He smirks at her, lifts those too blue eyes to her and she looks away. She's too angry at him to let him smooth things over right now.

"Well, yeah actually. You're really lucky you only broke the one. I know how fix that metacarpal. If you'd broken the first or second metacarpals, we'd be looking for a surgeon at 4 o'clock in the morning."

"You know what would have been really lucky?" He looks at her, curious. "If my asshole brother-in-law to be hadn't decided to wake me up at 3:15 in the frigging morning just to see if he could get me to punch him in the face and break my hand." He narrows his eyes at her before letting the whole scowl melt away into his most dazzling smile. The smile that kills her every time.

"Yep. That's it. You found me out, Light. I just really wanted to break your hand today." He rifles through the first aid kit until he comes up with a painkiller. "Take this. You're going to need it." She plucks the pill from his fingers and dry swallows it. The pill leaves a bitter taste in her mouth and she scowls. Snow laughs at her and she scowls more. He gets very serious.

"This is going to hurt." He presses on the bone a bit and she feels like she might throw up. Stars explode in front of her eyes and she thinks she might have shouted. When it's over she's panting and clammy. Snow looks worse than she feels but remains professional. He turns back to the first aid kit and pulls out tape.

"I'm going to tape your pinkie to your ring finger. But you're probably going to want to go to a doctor tomorrow to make sure you don't need surgical repair. Or a better splint."

"Hmmm," she grunts. She can't speak right now anyway. Snow layers padding between her fingers and slowly wraps the tape around the two, careful not to constrict circulation. She watches him as he works, blue eyes fixated on her fingers. She feels his fingers slipping over hers, smoothing tape on each pass. He rips the tape off with his teeth and secures it, fingers twisting around hers in soft twirling caresses.

Silence hovers like an ax.

"Lightning—" _No!_ She stands up and bumps into him in her struggle to get away. "Lightning," he repeats to her retreating back.

"Don't!" She stops at the far side of the room . "Just...just go home, Snow." He stands and takes a step towards her. "Why would you do this?" She asks. "What's the point?"

"How can I not do this?"

"What did you think would happen here?" She asks and starts pacing. "Really. What?" She holds her arms out. "Did you think that..." She can't even finish the sentence. It's too hard to think about, let alone to speak about. "Why did you have to do this?"

"I love you."

"Oh god." She might throw up. She puts her good hand over her mouth. She feels the liquor and painkiller swirl together in her gut and thinks that she might just puke everything up onto the concrete in her living room. "No, you don't!"

"Don't tell me what I feel!" He steps towards her and she takes another retreating step. "I lo—"

"DON'T!" she yells. "Don't say it again. Not ever!" Her stomach cramps and she presses her broken hand into the knotted pain in her gut. "You don't love me. You love Serah."

"I do love Serah." And god, does that have to hurt too? What the hell is wrong with her?

"That's right. So what the hell are you doing here?"

"I love Serah. But I'm _in love_ with you."

She holds her hands over her ears too late to block out the sound of it. "Don't say that! It's not true." She looks up at him and he looks broken. "Whatever it is you think you feel is not real!"

"What?"

"Whatever you saw in me is only a shadow of what you see in Serah. Don't you get it? She's the best part of me!" She feels like she's going to fall apart. "Go home to Serah."

"Tell me you don't love me, and I'll leave." Her whole body is going to split in half. She's shaking so hard that she feels like she might fly apart at any moment. Moreover, she hopes that she flies apart. She wants to melt into the floor, or run screaming into the night. She can't take this.

"You bastard!" She whispers. Then louder she says, "You have no right!"

"I have no right to find out if you love me?"

"No!" She wants to punch him again. If he gets any closer, she's going to hit him again, broken hand or no. "You don't. Because you belong to someone else. And not just anyone else. You belong to _my sister_! Get out of my house!"

"I can't—"

"Go home," she says. She steps closer to him, pouring every ounce of hope she has into her request. He looks away from her, face creased and crumpled. "Go home and just _look_ at Serah again. You love _her_. She's the one you want to marry and you'll see that and remember that as soon as you look at her. Whatever craziness you think you feel right now is just that. It's crazy. You'll go home, and we'll forget this ever happened. And you'll marry my sister and you'll be both be happy."

Snow sniffs once and pins her with his knowing gaze. "What about you, Lightning?" She turns away from him. She wants to grab her weapon and kill him for doing this to her. For waking her from her rest and mounting this assault upon her in the middle of the night. She goes to walk out on him but he grabs her by the arm and spins her around to look at him. "What about how you feel, huh? You going to tell me you don't love me?" He looks at where his fingers press bruises into her arm and loosens his grip, smooths his fingers over the reddening skin. "Tell me that, and I'll do what you want."

She shrugs out of his grip and steps away from him. "Get out of my house."

"That's not the right answer," he whispers.

"You bastard!" she hisses and throws another punch with her broken hand. He catches her wrist before the hit connects. They stare at each other for an infinite moment before he closes his eyes, pulls her fingers to his mouth and lays a kiss on the spot where tape meets skin. She gasps once, closes her eyes at the feel of his lips on her skin before remembering that he's insane and determined to pollute her with his lunacy. She struggles out of his grip until he releases her and they stand toe to toe.

"You want me to tell you?" She asks. She steels herself. She can do this. Lying prettily has always been easy for her.

"No," he shakes his head and sounds so broken. "No. I _need_ you to tell me, Lightning." His eyes beg her. She takes a deep breath and decides to give him what he wants.

"Alright. The only thing that we'll ever give one another, Snow, is that bruise on your face, and this broken hand. The only thing between us, is Serah."

"What if I don't want to be with Serah anymore?" He asks and she feels like he's just gut punched her. All her air explodes out of her. She takes a moment, stands straight and looks him dead in his eyes.

"Then that's your choice. But if you think that I would take something from my sister, you're out of your mind. You leaving her won't change anything. You were never mine. And you never will be." She slides her broken hand over the bruise on his face from where her fist connected earlier. "I won't tell you anything because it will never matter. This," she presses on the bruise with her broken hand until they both cringe, "is all we'll ever have."

He covers her hand with his own and turns his face into her palm to lay a kiss there. She watches, feels her heart drop into her stomach so she can throw it up later with the liquor and painkillers. "You don't want me," she whispers. "I'm broken. Serah is so much...more than I'll ever be. And she loves you."

"I love Serah," he whispers into her palm.

"I know you do." She says, feels the first ray of hope since this nightmare started.

"I love you." How is it possible that the three most sought after words in the universe can destroy her?

"It doesn't matter." And it doesn't. "You'll get over it." He will. She knows that he will go home, kiss Serah. Maybe make love to her. Serah will sigh at him and cuddle with him and he'll remember that Lightning is just the prototype model. The broken, buggy piece of crap. He'll have some moments of 'what if' but he'll marry Serah and never have a moment's regret. And Serah will be happy. And that is all that matters to her.

"What about you, Light?" He whispers to her. His right hand snakes its way around her hip, his left hand holds her right hand to his face and somehow she is in Snow's arms. She feels like she's suffocating. She feels like she's flying.

"I'll be fine," she gasps as he pulls her to him. "I'm always fine."

"Is that why you're living in this dump? Because you're always fine?" When did he learn to see right through her? How the hell is it possible that this...do-nothing asshole has managed to know her better than anyone else? "Is that why you have broken furniture? Is that why I never see you anymore? Why you won't see Serah? Is that why you've stopped returning Hope's messages? Because you're always fine?"

She can feel his breath on her face. How the hell did he get this close?

She snakes her left hand between them and puts it on his chest. Presses to keep him away from her. She needs distance. "You need to go home. This can't happen. This will never happen, Snow. Please go home."

"Lightning," he murmurs, presses his forehead against hers, exhales a breath in a hot gush of air over her face. She closes her eyes, twists her head away.

"If you really love me, you won't do this to me." It's a cheap shot. She doesn't care. She can't stand his hands on her. She can't live without his hands on her. "I've never asked you for anything, Snow. I'm asking you to leave my house and not to ever bring this up again." Snow's grip on her hip lessens. The fingers covering hers disappear. "Go home to Serah. Don't hurt her." He exhales and her hair moves. She can feel him tilting his head, his nose sliding against hers. She whispers into his mouth before his lips brush hers: "Please, don't do this to me."

He releases her and steps away. She keeps her eyes closed, her face turned away from him. She wants to weep. She wants to scream. She wants to collapse on the floor. She hears him walk over to the coat rack. She hears him slide into his overcoat and walk to the front door. She glances at him, sees his slumped shoulders, his dejected demeanor. She exhales and turns her back to the door, unable to watch him leave, unable to look at him again.

She hears the lock on the front door click in release. She closes her eyes and holds her breath.

Three large steps, a hand on her arm whipping her around, fingers in her hair and he says, "just once," before he swoops down and scalds her with his mouth. She's so surprised that she can't even protest as his tongue traces her lips, her teeth, her tongue. One long perfect moment and she's so stunned that she doesn't have time to protest before he pants into her mouth, "I'm sorry. Sorry." He kisses her once more because he's always been a bit of a liar, and then he's gone, and she's hot and cold and standing barefoot on the concrete floor in her miserable living room.

She touches her swollen mouth with her broken hand, looks around her miserable house, looks at the clock on the wall to find that it's 4:17 am. Her entire life has been destroyed in less than one hour. That might be a record, but she's not certain. She walks to the door and locks it and listens to the silence of his absence. She clicks off the living room light and walks back into her bedroom. She slips between blankets long since gone cold in her absence and decides that she needs a change. She licks her still swollen mouth and finds that she can still taste him. She feels a tear burn from the corner of her eye, to slide down and disappear into the pillow of her hair. She wipes at her eyes with her broken hand. Tomorrow morning, she'll move closer to Fang and Vanille (oh how she misses them) and Cocoon. There are still people who might need her help. There's got to be someplace where she can be useful. She needs a change of scenery. Snow and Serah will get married, and maybe one day, they can all be a family again.

Maybe one day, that won't kill her inside.

She closes her eyes and sighs, and longs for the thrum of battle.

* * *

TBC...

This started out as a one shot and it was meant as such. However...the story continued on and Lightning really wanted to keep it moving and what Lightning says, goes!

I have held this story off this site because so MANY PEOPLE keep thinking I'm going to pair these two up in Evolution. I'm not.


	2. I have Measured Out My Life With Coffee Spoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightning decides that she needs a change of scenery, and embarks on a journey.

I don't own Snow or Lightning. They own me!  
Warnings: angst. That's pretty much a standard for this ditty.  
  


* * *

"The man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready."  
-Henry David Thoreau

-I Have Measured out my Life with Coffee Spoons-

Sleep eludes Lightning in the aftermath of Snow's visit.

Oh, she tries to sleep. She does the best damn imitation of sleep any human has ever done! Still, she cannot shake the feelings churning inside her long enough for sleep to seep into her exhausted body or quell her spinning mind. Her stomach roils around, combining anger, hurt, liquor and painkillers together like some sort of sick witch's brew.

She might throw up. An acidic grumble of her stomach makes her wonder if that wouldn't be the best thing. Lightning contemplates forcing the issue before deciding that it would just take too much effort. Not to mention the act would force her from beneath her warm covers and out of her imitation sleep. She settles, counts out heartbeats in her head.

Feels the warmth of his hand like a brand along her hipbone.

She rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling.

The room is dark, but it's not a perfect darkness. Lightning can see the crack that runs across her ceiling like some sort of tectonic fault line. She focuses on it, hopes that concentrating on nothing will let her anxiety drain away like pus from a boil and allow her a measure of peace. She feels her heartbeat steady out, feels her eyelids get heavy and droop.

Sees blue eyes and white teeth surrounded by smiling, chapped lips. Feels the moisture of his breath slide over her jaw and earlobe as he whispers unspeakable things to her. Feels the shiver that started at the base of her spine rattle through her all over again.

Lightning hurls herself back onto her side and punches her pillow once to try and get it right. She decides that _it_ must be the problem, because she is never going to admit that _Snow_ of all people can steal sleep and solace from her. He doesn't have that kind of power. She won't let him have that kind of power over her. The decision makes her feel better. She closes her eyes, takes steadying breaths to calm herself; feels herself drift for a sweet moment, body sinking deeper into her warm, inviting bed.

_Just once._

She opens her eyes, kicks her legs once in frustration; settles again and closes her eyes. She swallows, moistens her lips and tastes him all over again.

"Damn it!" She wishes he were here right now. She'd break his _goddamn_ neck!

She takes a steadying breath, closes her eyes and tries again to find slumber. She drifts, makes it to that wonderful in-between space where sleep is just an inch away...

_I'm in love with you._

_Tell me you don't love me._

_That's it!_ Lightning opens her eyes and kicks her blankets off with more violence than necessary. Her legs tangle in them and she thrashes like an infant having a tantrum.

"Asshole!" She yells to her empty room. "Just...goddamn...stupid...jerk!" She blows out a hard breath.

_Very articulate._

Not only did he steal her sleep, he stole her coherence as well! _This just keeps getting better and better._ Lightning pulls the tangled blankets from around her legs and hurls them onto the floor. They whip through the air, lash her cheek, whisper against her eye and brush her lashes. She flinches, rage growing by leaps and bounds with every stupid second. Her eye waters, and she dashes away the tears, scrapes her eyelid with the bandaging she'd forgotten about, and lets out a frustrated shout. She clenches a fist in a rage, feels the pain from her fractured hand fire up her arm. She forces herself to unclench her muscles, to take a breath before she hurts herself in some stupid, childish temper tantrum. The energy bubbling up inside her refuses to dissipate without an outlet. Lightning climbs out of her bed and paces her room to burn off this inflated anger born of sleeplessness and fear.

_How could he do this? What could have been going through his tiny, pea brain to make him think that this was acceptable or appropriate?_

If she could go back in time, she'd have never opened the goddamn door! Hell, as long as she is dreaming up pointless what ifs, she'd have never moved into this house. She didn't want to! She wanted to stay near Sazh and Dajh from the start. They settled near Cocoon. Near Fang and Vanille, near Hope and his father. Lightning had wanted to stay near her new friends, to build a new life for herself and for the survivors from Cocoon.

Sazh thought that the refugees would need help building a settlement: supplies, food, fresh water, agriculture, not to mention protection from the dangers of Gran Pulse. He managed to somehow get hold of an aircraft before everything went to hell, said it would be great for shuttling heavy loads as well as passengers. So, he stayed where he could do some good. Bartholomew Estheim made a similar choice, most likely at the behest of his son. Hope didn't want their group to separate; he thought that perhaps their being together might rouse Fang and Vanille from their stasis.

She doubted that was possible, but leaving Fang and Vanille behind felt wrong enough that she entertained Hope's idea.

But Snow and Serah wanted a seaside town. They wanted something that resembled the home they'd lost in Bodhum back on Cocoon. Serah grew up by the sea, had her happiest moments and fondest memories under the sun, soft sand squishing between her toes. Snow wanted only Serah's happiness. So, Snow and his band of merry idiots — aka N.O.R.A. — decided to start building on and near the ruins of Oerba, clear across the Archylte Steppe from their friends. And Serah begged Lightning to stay with them.

Lightning hesitated in agreeing to the request. It was a first in both their lives. Part of her knew even then that living here would be difficult. The seaside settlement didn't suit her. Oerba carried memories she would just as soon forget: memories of Cieth, of Fang's devastation at finding her home destroyed, of Vanille's squeals of delight when they reassembled her pet...whatever the hell it was; memories of Barthandelus taunting and mocking them in Serah's form.

She shivers.

She would have been happier never seeing Oerba again, truth be told.

Bodhum was her home by circumstance, not choice. She had no real attachment to the beach or ocean. Her only attachments to Bodhum were in the memories it carried, and the family that remained.

But she soon found her apathy to beachfront property in general, and her aversion to Oerba specifically, were was just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg. A few weeks after settling, Lightning realized that Snow made her _uncomfortable_. It wasn't the intense dislike that she felt when she first met him. That would have been easy to quash or deal with. She could have pointed to it and said, 'there's the problem, now get the hell over it.'

No, it was nothing that obvious. The discomfort was amorphous and undefined. Everything would be okay one moment. Then the next thing she knew, Snow would wink at her, and she'd feel a heated flush creep up over her face; or he'd tease her, and something in her gut would twist and clench. It wasn't anger or embarrassment. She couldn't figure out what the hell it was, so she did her best to avoid it and him altogether. She felt like she was always running away, and Lightning never ran from anything in her life. Hell, she ran head first towards death and destruction for weeks and weeks and never flinched.

The whole experience made her skin crawl. It made her jumpy and irritable. She hated this uncertainty blossoming within her. She no longer understood her reactions; she no longer knew herself. She didn't want to be around Snow at all because of this indefinable thing twisting inside her.

She never suspected the real problem, and that's the kicker here.

She never put her finger on the problem; never probed or dissected her discomfort to ascertain its cause. She never would have believed that he noticed her discomfort. And she never would have thought he'd be astute enough to figure out the reason for said discomfort when _she_ hadn't. The very idea that he might have any sort of feelings for her beyond exasperation, and possible familial affection, was preposterous. Snow radiated lovesick joy, spent his days and nights making googly eyes at Serah. Serah shined brighter than any gemstone Lightning ever saw when she was with Snow, and she swore up and down that 'Her Hero' hung the stars in the heavens just for her. They were happy, and Lightning was happy for them both. There was no hint of bitterness or jealousy inside her.

She still doesn't feel jealous or covetous. She doesn't feel anything but treacherous.

Despite her happiness for her sister, there was a thread of ickiness inside her, too; something that remained unsettled despite all her best efforts. She figured she was uncomfortable being third wheel in their little group; she didn't like feeling like she was intruding on what should be private moments between lovers. It was, and still is, a reasonable explanation for her discomfiture.

Other times she blamed it on sitting idle while so many people were struggling. Lightning was born for activity. She never sat idle a day in her life. In school, she worked hard and played harder. When her parents died, she worked to prove to the authorities that she was a capable caregiver for her sister despite her youth, and never faltered in that endeavor. After graduation, she enlisted in the military, determined to become a member of the Guardian Corps, and protect the citizens of Cocoon. She achieved that goal and became one of the most respected member of the GC in her regiment.

She needed work, but instead of helping people she was just sitting on her ass for months, collecting dust and getting stale.

Also a viable explanation.

Apparently, that was the explanation Snow came up with for her withdrawal as well. About four months after they settled, Snow — and his merry band of idiots — showed up at her door, and asked her if she would help out with keeping the settlement perimeter clear to prevent local wildlife wandering into the developing community. Snow's exact words were _"It'll be good for you."_ The comment rankled, and Lightning balked; found the idea irritating, mostly because it was his idea and she really didn't accept direction well. The idea of working for Snow in any capacity pissed her off. He was an undisciplined ass and she was a sergeant in the Guardian Corps. But once her knee-jerk denial passed, she realized that she liked the idea of having a purpose again. Real work of a type at which she was exceptional would go a long way towards making her feel like she belonged here.

And of course, the rush and thrill of fighting was a great bonus.

Snow winked at her, clapped her on the back in one of his painful and playful signs of encouragement, and yelled _"Atta girl!"_ She almost socked him in the mouth. The look he gave her told her he expected the hit, so she surprised him (and herself) by not doing it. Instead she shocked them both by placing a hand on his chest over his heart, giving him her best warm smile, and saying with all sincerity, "Thank you, Snow."

The stammering and blushing that followed was worth the effort it took to rein in her baser instincts.

Of course, she can now see that Snow was paying far too close attention to her. It's a benefit of hindsight she could do without, to be honest.

So, for a while she was able to burn off her excess energy protecting people again; she could push away uncomfortable thoughts and just be herself and do her thing. Her weapon, herself, and the great outdoors! She was invigorated and felt more alive than she'd felt...in years, if she were being truthful. There was no more chain of command, no more shaky, unsettling orders. She could put all her training to good use doing good works. It was excellent! She was exorcising her demons and having a great time in the process.

Life was good, right up until she got injured on a patrol. She misstepped, zigged when she should have zagged, and caught a nasty rake from some filthy claws. She slew the bastard creature and kept going, ignoring the blood leaking through her shirt, too high on the adrenaline to notice or care.

It was nothing. A scratch!

* * *

_"Scratch, Lightning?" Snow yells as he wipes antiseptic over the claw marks on her back. She flinches away, more from the anger vibrating through him than from any actual pain from the injury._

_"I'm fine." She is. The pain is negligible, and they both know that she's had far worse. Hell, he saw her get far worse than this glancing hit during their travels together. There's minor bleeding and marginal pain._

_"This one is almost to the bone. It needs stitches!" He traces his finger none-too-gently along the undamaged skin next to the wound. It's a long gash, and now that he disturbed it, it burns like he poured salt into it. She grits her teeth and exhales. Bastard made it hurt to make a point._

_Screw him! It's still nothing._

_"So? It's not my first rodeo Snow." She pulls her hair over her shoulder to give him access to the shoulder blade. "And it's not the first time you've seen me hurt. Just stitch it up already."_

_He slams things as he pulls suture materials from the kit. "You're unbelievable!" He drops everything with a loud crash, nearly bowls her over as he stands up and storms out of the room. She stares after him in shock._

_"What the hell just happened?" She asks the empty room._

* * *

Serah stitched it up, lecturing the entire time about being careful and taking care of herself. "We love you Claire." Lightning bristled at the use of her given name, tensed under sweeping allegations of love, but kept her temper in check. Pain tended to make her cranky and ornery. She knew this particular truth about herself, recognized it as one of her worst qualities. She held her tongue, offered thanks for the help and empty promises to be more careful. She went home, took a painkiller and forgot all about the incident as she fell into a dreamless sleep. She didn't think about it again at all until the next day, when Snow showed up to accompany her on her next patrol.

* * *

_She opens the door and finds Snow loitering on her front porch. She stares at him, speechless. Trying to determine what the hell he is doing on her doorstep. He stormed out on her last night and left her to bleed and hurt until Serah got home._

_When Serah asked him what he was thinking, Lightning heard him yell from a far room, "Serves her right!"_

_Now he stands here at her doorstep like nothing happened, and she wonders if she hallucinated the entire event. He gives her his megawatt smile and she feels dread creeping in. "Hey. Ready to go?"_

Ready to go? _Has she stepped into an alternate universe?_

_"What are you doing here?" She's cautious, hurtling towards pissed._

_He winks at her. "I'm here to keep you out of trouble."_

_A strange feeling lights up her insides, makes her queasy and angry all at once. She grits her teeth. "I don't need a babysitter, Snow." She leaves out the implied:_ Especially not you _._

_"Well, Serah asked me to look after you. And that's what I'm going to do from now on. So get used to it."_

* * *

And that was that.

He stole her solace then and blamed the mess on Serah. The one place where she was free, where she found a measure of happiness and he infiltrated it like some sort of disease. She retreated from everything after he'd taken her last shred of freedom from her, clipped her wings and shackled her good and proper. He couldn't have made her more a prisoner if he'd tried.

She started retreating from everything then. She pulled further and further away. Patrols no longer gave her happiness, so she'd begged off them, claiming pains and other obligations. Hope would call her on the two-way radios and could always hear her distress. Her unwillingness to tell him her troubles hurt him, so she stopped talking to him altogether.

She began to resent her sister for putting her on a choke chain and handing her very short leash to Snow.

She had no escape but within the walls of her very shabby home, so she shut herself away in it and wallowed as she'd never done before. She hadn't felt that sorry for herself after her parents died! She pissed herself off no end, and she spent most days either sulking, or raging aloud about her childish, churlish behavior.

Then he had the audacity to violate her last retreat as well. He showed up in the middle of the night, and took a wrecking ball to her entire life. Then he poured gasoline on it and lit it on fire for good measure.

The whispered confessions will haunt her until she dies.

Don't misunderstand now: she's not some romantic asshole who believes she'll never get over him. She's still pissed off that she fell for him in the first place. So pissed off that she spent months and months denying that there were any feelings at all. She knows damn well that she'll get over him. In fact, she can't frigging wait to get over him! It'll be a long, slow, and unbelievably irritating process, but one day she'll wake up and it will be gone.

Kind of like a virus. A sickening, insanity-inducing virus.

She'll be able to look at him and remember without dredging up the gut-wrenching feelings and crushing guilt. There'll be memories of feelings, which is not even close to the same thing. They'll just be...memories. Vague. Like faded, yellowed photographs. She knows that she won't even be able to recall what it felt like, or why she'd felt it at all. She may have one or two regrets. She may even indulge them once in a while in the middle of the night, or when the healed fracture line in her hand aches from the cold or the damp; she'll dream that she hadn't turned him away, or that his 'just once' meant more than one kiss.

She shivers at the idea.

Then she'll remember that he was never hers to take, and that doing so would have been the worst sort of betrayal of the only family she has left. She'll remember that she may be many things, but she is no base thief, and sure as hell is no traitor. She'll remember that any other decision would trash the lives of the two people she loves most in the world, and destroy any semblance of self worth she might have left. She'll realize that she has done the best she possibly can in a miserable situation. She has honored her sister as far as she could with a traitorous, _idiotic_ heart that simply would not listen to reason. At all.

She stops pacing, runs her fingers through her hair and exhales. She feels better, like her idle thoughts and random musings have actually resolved the matter when in actuality, she's accomplished nothing at all. She walks out of her room and heads to the shower. She is cold now. And tired. A hot shower will help both problems, and she's almost salivating at the idea of it.

The pipes groan and shake when she twists the faucet, but she decides to be patient and waits for the water to run hot. She looks at the makeshift splint that Snow constructed for her last night, knows that she cannot get it wet. She considers tearing off the tape and rebinding the injury after her shower, before dismissing the idea. The task might prove too difficult considering her right hand is dominant.

She is definitely not refusing to change the bandaging because Snow constructed the splint; not because his fingers smoothed the tape with care, and his teeth tore the ragged end. That would be stupid sentimental nonsense, and unworthy of a soldier: a sergeant in the Guardian Corp (though that rank means less than nothing in the wake of Cocoon's destruction.) She growls at herself and hunts down a plastic bag to cover the bandaging.

She is absurd. Absurd, and more than a bit pathetic. When the hell did that happen?

Locating and positioning the bag takes enough time that the bathroom is steamy and warm when she gets back . She's practically drooling as she strips off her pajamas and climbs into the dingy porcelain tub. She stands beneath the near scalding spray and lets out a moan that would be more appropriate in a pornographic film than in a disgusting bathtub. Although, now that she thinks of it, many porno movies have scenes in disgusting bathtubs.

She needs to switch her brain's track now.

The hot water is heaven, and Lightning stands under the spray far longer than it takes to clean herself. She lets the water cascade over her, beat down on her muscles and pour over her head, washing every mental and physical ache away. It is a purification and it is heaven. She stands there until the water temperature starts dropping by degrees per second.

"Damn it!" She scowls as she twists off the faucet, wraps a towel around herself and climbs out of the tub. She pulls off the bag over her hand with her teeth, sees that the hot water has called up bruises in every shade of blue and purple across her right hand. The skin feels tight now, swelled up over the injury from the damage. She tries to move her hand, feels the pain shoot right to her elbow and grunts. Her best bet is not moving it.

_Damn it!_

Brushing her teeth is an awkward and annoying thing to do with her left hand. It seems strange how backwards it feels to her, and it takes at least twice as long as usual to brush. Her feet have gone numb from the cold tile floor and she has a strange déjà vu for a few hours ago.

/Cold feet. Prickling skin. _Can I come in?/_

She shakes her head to dispel the memory before she gets lost in it. She has no desire to relive events that she wishes she hadn't experienced in the first place. She slams the cabinet over the sink hard enough to crack the mirror. The crack splits right through her face, giving the illusion that the two halves of her don't match up. That she's as broken outside as she is inside.

Her empty expression twists into a disgusted sneer.

She needs to get the hell out of here. She's seeing metaphors in cracked mirrors now! Soon she'll start seeing images of the Maker in her burnt toast, and the future in wet tea leaves! She'll lose what little grip she has left. She's losing her goddamn mind sitting around here day in and day out, doing nothing but counting out her days in snowfall accumulations and dodged calls. She's withering into a dried out husk, a mere shadow of herself, and somewhere along the way she stopped caring.

She's no good to anyone here. Her presence only threatens to ruin the lives of two people she loves. Sazh has extended multiple invitations to her, then multiple requests for aid. She has resisted going only to keep her sister happy.

_Is that really the only reason, Lightning?_

No! She's so not going there and screw him for making her doubt her own motivations.

Well, whatever. Considering last night's events, her sister will be much happier if Lightning is on the other side of this forsaken planet.

Lucky for her, that's just where she's going. Sazh lives on the far side of the Archylte Steppe.

She lets her years of training take over. Soldiers have to be able to break down camp, pack up and move out within minutes of receiving the order. It's a comfortable and familiar thing to boil her life down to essentials that can be carried in a pack. She sorts through her belongings in no time, packs a bag for her gear, cleans and prepares her weapon, and dresses herself in the most sensible clothing she can find for the journey she is about to take. She glances around the house for anything that she might want to take. She has no intentions of ever returning to this hovel. She realizes now that this was never her home. It was a mere way-station; a place for her to marinate in her own juices until inactivity drove her back to her first, best destiny. She is a warrior, a soldier without an army.

She is an army of one. She always has been.

She's not a home-maker, and she won't stick around to be Crazy Aunt Claire, or 'that lady with thirty cats.' She is not meant for staying home and keeping house. She only ever did that to take care of Serah.

Serah can care for herself now, and Snow can keep her safe. Lightning trusts the moron not screw that up, at least. He may be mixed up and confused, but Lightning is positive that he loves Serah and would die to keep her safe. That is all she will ever ask of him. Ever. Again.

Lightning longs for the open road. She longs for freedom and fighting. She's very skilled and highly trained, and she's rotting here in her own self indulgent depression.

She is a wasting damned shame. But no more.

She packs her things with speed and efficiency. She's a whirlwind tearing through her house, plucking essentials from their places amongst the useless crap that she's scattered about in vain effort to create the illusion of domesticity in this prison. She packs her clothing, her med-kit and her items; she grabs her ammo, gun oil, sharpening stone and polishing cloth. She grabs rope and climbing gear-just in case. She considers leaving behind the communicator Sazh built for all of them out of two way radios and cannibalized cell phone parts. It was an act of inspired brilliance on his part, and shortened the distance between the members of their makeshift family dramatically.

She stares at it where it lays on the table and realizes that leaving it would be a hurtful act, not to mention a stupid one. She knows this is a dangerous undertaking; she knows she might die. Leaving behind her only means to reach her loved ones would be petty and cruel, and while she doesn't deny her own capacity for cruelty, she isn't proud of it. Nor does she indulge it willingly. Leaving this here will hurt Serah. She's done more than her share of hurting Serah in her lifetime. She stops considering, shoves the communicator into a waterproof bag in her pack and forgets it.

Lightning turns her attention to her weapon. She lifts it in her injured hand, feels the pain, but knows it won't interfere in the usage. She flips the switch watches the blade extend with a smooth snap, then retract clean and easy. Her weapon is beautiful and unfailing-her most treasured possession. She smiles, strokes the long line of her Edged Carbine, and holsters it. She slips her birthday dagger into a case and straps it to her thigh. She debates taking the sphere from its pedestal on her dresser. It is her Odin Stone and it earned a place of honor in her life and bedroom. She hasn't touched it since placing it; she always figured the best course was to leave the past in the past and not look back. She turns away from it now and takes two steps toward the door. She pauses and glances back over her shoulder, catches a glimpse of it from the corner of her eye.

_Ah, what the hell?_

She spins, stretches and swipes the stone from the pedestal, pets it once before secreting it away into her pouch. She doubts it works, but it is hers and she wants it. Odin became a part of her during that nightmare journey, and she is not ready to part company just yet.

Is she demented for missing her Eidolon?

She shakes her head, decides that the answer to that question doesn't matter anyway, and gives the empty rooms a cursory glance. She spots the two pictures that sit in her bedroom: one of Hope, Sazh, Dajh, Snow and her in front of the crystal of their lost friends and home, and a childhood picture of her and Serah with their parents. She swipes them both, places her childhood family picture in her bag and lets her fingers linger over the image of their little motley crew. She feels her eyes burn as she stares at Fang and Vanille, lost to them now forever in a final act of sacrifice and friendship, and feels a gaping hole open so wide inside her that she's afraid her whole house might just fall into it.

She misses them so much sometimes. She doesn't really understand how it's possible for two people she'd only known briefly to create such an absence in her now. Through their time and trials together, they became a family.

She pulls out the picture with her parents, stares at her mother's kind eyes-so much like Serah's-and her father's wide smile. Her heart hurts at the idea of losing her last connection to them.

She's tired of losing her family.

She sniffs and packs the pictures away. She'll see some of her lost family again soon. She'll go and pay her respects to Fang and Vanille at their 'resting place.' She turns away, deciding that she is packed and ready, before remembering that she's forgotten the only other thing she has left of Fang-that bottle of poisonous liquor from five hundred years ago stuffed away in her kitchen-and goes to retrieve it. It is frivolous and unnecessary.

Like the Odin stone, it is hers and she wants it.

She slips the liquor into her pouch, hears the clinking and gurgling indicative of a bottle of liquid. She can almost hear Fang's voice saying "Cheers!" in those innocuous sounds. She smiles at the memory of her friend, feels the pang of loneliness hit her hard.

She grabs her boots, sits onto her couch and feels the broken spring stick her in her ass again. She slides over, scowls down at the couch and sees something black pressed between the cushions. She pulls the crumpled cloth from its hiding place already knowing what she's going to find.

Snow's bandanna. She pulled it off him last night when she checked him for head injuries, before she realized that he wasn't injured-just insane. She sees a few blond hairs tied into the knot at the back, drops the thing onto the couch as if it were on fire. She ignores it, turns back toward the task at hand.

She tucks her winter white wool leggings into her fur lined boots, laces them as tightly as possible to keep heat in and moisture out. Walking in these sorts of conditions risks frostbite, gangrene and possible amputation. She looks back over at the bandanna where it lays abandoned on the cushions, feels her face heat. She stands up and moves away. She pulls a heavy white wool sweater over her knit shirts for extra layers and warmth. She's already sweating. She pulls on her heavy animal skin poncho, her hat, scarf and mittens. Her right hand throbs and she scowls at it while coveting the pain.

_/This is the only thing we'll ever give one another./_

The stupid sentiment makes her want to punch herself in the face and break her hand all over again. It also calls her attention to the discarded bandanna. She looks away again. She needs to get the hell out of here. Now that she's packed away her few important possessions, this house contains nothing for her but bad memories. Memories of her drinking too much to avoid thinking too much. Inactivity doesn't agree with her. Her mother used to say that idle hands are the devil's workshop. She's met the devil-good old Barthandelus-so she's pretty sure that's not true. Everything was that bastard's workshop.

Totally besides the point.

She needs to be doing something useful, something worthwhile. There's too much to do in this world for her to sit in a house and feel sorry for herself. She's positive that doing things will help purge this insanity from her. It was too much time spent in too close proximity under dire circumstances that birthed this abomination in her heart. Distance and time will restore sanity to her life, and hopefully do the same for Snow. She straps on her weapon, positions it for easy access, slings her pack onto her back, pulls open the door and gets smacked with the icy breeze. She pauses...

Inhales. Exhales.

...Storms over to the couch and swipes the bandanna with a curse, turns her back on the crappy room, heads out into the frigid winter morning and never looks back.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...
> 
> A/N # 875-I'd assumed that everyone was familiar with T.S. Eliot and 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.' If you are not, I suggest you read it. It is one of my favorite poems and there will be MANY chapter titles that are direct quotes or paraphrases from that poem. T.S. Eliot is one of the great poets, and his work should be read over and over again. If you don't like it the first time, keep trying it. His poems get better and better, are full of wonderful imagery.
> 
> Feedback is love.
> 
> Originally Posted in January or Feb. 2011.


	3. How Should I Begin...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do the difficult things while they are easy and do the great things while they are small. A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step."  
> Lao Tzu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy XIII. If I did, the story would have been much darker than it was.  
> Warnings: Mentions of sexual content (nothing graphic-I'm pretty sure your average prime time TV show gets a lot heavier than this chapter. If you think the rating needs to go up, let me know. I'm thinking T is still appropriate for now.)  
> More Angst. No violence. Yet. (If you read my stories at all, then you know violence will be here at some point.)

"Beyond the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, And the East and West the wander-thirst that will not let me be."  
-Gerald Gould

How Should I Begin...?

"Brilliant, Lightning. Just brilliant." The trip to Taejin's Tower is easy going despite the raging blizzard. Lightning moves with efficiency through the fine, powdery snow. She reaches the small port they built to house the gondola lifts they fashioned from the old elevator system to ascend the steep cliff faces.

And to reach the top of Taejin's tower.

She enters and closes the doors, takes a moment to breathe warmer air. The gondola lifts are in good shape. She checks the ropes and cabling at the bullwheel in the station; checks the gears. She knows all the ins and outs of this machine since she, Sazh and Bartholomew Estheim designed it together. Their main goal was to design a transport system using pulleys, levers and physics to substitute electric power. The rationale behind designing such a system was to conserve the precious resources and fuel they still had in order to use it to construct a means to generate power.

The result of this idea is a hand cranked gondola system that uses counter weights, pulleys, levers and good old fashioned 'elbow grease' to ascend the mountain and reach the top of the tower. Lightning thought the design of the system both elegant and ingenious in its simplicity and was proud to be part of both the design and construction.

The majority of Cocoon citizens, however, were not used to doing much of anything for themselves. Too long had they lived as kept pets in a fal'Cie zoo to embrace any sort of manual labor. Many found the idea of hunting and gathering for food barbaric and beneath them. Agriculture was a foreign concept and garnered looks of incredulity and distaste. And the idea of hand pumps and pulley systems instead of electric pumps and elevators frustrated most of them. The hard work and rough lifestyle turned most of them off to moving away from the center of the growing civilization, which was the reason for the very small population of people in their oceanfront community.

Lightning, on the other hand, embraces hard work. She lives for it! She enters the gondola lift and closes the door, thrilled for the both the reprieve from the weather and a dry place to rest. She sits for a moment, takes the opportunity to catch her breath and nibble some dried meat. The small bite of food hits her stomach like a bomb and makes her queasy. She scowls at the remnants of her meal before rewrapping it and replacing it in her pack. She withdraws a canteen and takes a few small sips of water. The water is frigid and Lightning puts it away before her thirst is quenched to avoid lowering her core body temperature too much. She takes a deep breath...

She's ready now.

She pulls the lever to open the terminal door, packs everything away and grabs onto the handle on the wheel with both hands. She pushes and pulls on the handle, feels muscles in her body pull and flex. Her hand aches more with each motion. The gears are frozen, the cable icy and the work is hard and tedious. The high winds rock the car back and forth on the line and make moving the car upwards and forward even more difficult. Lightning feels sweat on her brow pour into her eyes; more drips from her face into her collar. She knows that her many layers of clothing will be wet from the inside out by the time she reaches the apex of the tower. She continues working, feels the burn in her thighs, in her abdominal muscles. Feels the ache in her bad shoulder that will turn to cramps and spasms by later tonight.

She stops the car once on the way up, hits the brake, and takes a moment to catch her breath. The wind rocks the car in near one hundred fifty degree arcs on the line, and Lightning slams into the walls like a pinball in a machine for a moment before getting her balance again and continuing the ascent.

It takes her better than a half hour to make it to the top, and by the time she summits and coasts into the terminal, she's aching, panting, and swooning with exhaustion. Straightening up makes every muscle in her back spasm and lock, and the cold only exacerbates the problem. Her injured hand is swollen and throbbing and spectacularly purple. She presses at the fractured bone, feels the sharp edge where it's moved again and she curses.

She presses against it until she screeches, until the bone feels straight. She chews her chapped lower lip bloody as she tapes up her injured hand again over the original dressing. She dry swallows a painkiller, feels a wave of nausea so strong it knocks her on her ass. She sits, puts her head between her legs and waits for the pain and sickness and ringing to pass.

_Wait...Ringing?_

The sound draws her out of her misery. She looks at her pack and realizes that the ringing is coming from inside it.

From her communicator.

"Damn it." She roots around in her bag until she comes up with the communicator, looks at the display.

Snow.

"Damn it," she repeats. She considers answering the call for about two seconds, decides that her pain is making her weak. She puts the communicator away unanswered.

She feels better all around. She exits the terminal, at the top of Taejin's Tower. She's looking forward to using the Tower's strange elevator system after that workout. It'll be nice to take it easy for a bit before she has to start trudging again. She walks to the first elevator and hears an unholy racket from below. _What the...?_ She walks to the center of the tower and looks down, finds the reason for her easy, uninterrupted journey inside.

Every animal and monster for miles has sought shelter from the storm within the tower.

"You have got to be kidding me," she says to no one. Or maybe she's just talking to fate and that miserable bitch Etro. Damn Maker and her stupid fal'Cie. This is all her fault. Lightning's positive that it must be her fault. Everything else that sucks in Lightning's life is the Maker's fault, so why should this be different? She stares into the meat grinder below and considers her chances for survival.

"No way." She walks to the east side of the tower and looks down to see what awaits her at the front entrance. She's almost afraid to look. If there are too many creatures milling around at the entrance, she's going to have to turn back. She stares into the whipping wind toward the base of the tower and is pleasantly surprised to see that there's a whole lot of nothing waiting for her down there.

"That's because the animals are smarter than you are, Lightning," she grumbles to herself. She considers her options. Through the throng, or over the side. "Both options suck, as per usual."

Still, there's no animals down there.

She heaves an enormous sigh that is visible in the frigid air.

"Okay then." So much for the easy way. She digs out her climbing gear: her hooks and anchors, rappel device and ropes. She chooses the longest rope she has, hopes it's long enough. She's just not confident enough in her finger strength or dexterity to do this mess with two ropes. She steps into her harness, checks the clips. She gets out her climbing gloves, realizes that she's not going to be able to get them on with her makeshift splint. She looks at the gloves and makes a decision.

She pulls out her knife and slits the inner seams of the ring finger and pinky of the right glove; she'll stitch it up again later. She can't afford to screw up her hand anymore by climbing without support on the break. She pulls on the fingerless gloves, knows that the cold is going to be a problem. She's going to have to do this very fast if she doesn't want frostbite on her fingertips.

She anchors her rope, ties the ends together, throws the tied ends off the side of the tower and prays it will make it to the bottom. When she sees it pool below she exhales a relieved breath. She sets her pack on her back again, hears more ringing inside it and swears aloud. She listens to the communicator ring once...twice...

_Ah, what the hell?_

She knows she shouldn't answer it. No good will come of it. Still, she slips off the pack and withdraws the communicator, hits the button to connect already knowing who will be on the line.

"Yeah," she answers. She must be a masochist.

"You left." _Obviously._

"What do you want?" _Stay cold._ She shivers once in the biting wind. _It should be easy._

"You left," he repeats. "Why did you leave?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me that question." _Dumbass!_

"Yeah, I know. It's just..." he pauses. "It's just...you left and you didn't say anything." He sounds angry, and she feels her temper flare to match it. It feels good! "How could you just…leave?" His voice breaks on the last word and the anger fades into something that sounds more like hurt. That's not something she can take. She doesn't want to hurt him. She shouldn't matter enough to hurt him. It's not her right.

"I need a change." Why is she explaining herself to him?

"Look, Lightning…" his voice is small and so un-Snow that she can't listen to it anymore.

"It's none of your business, what I do," she's being cruel and she hates it. She hates him for making her be mean to him. "What do you want? Why are you calling me?"

"I…I was concerned." And that just sucks; it hits her like a gut shot. "I...I came to your house this morning. To apologize and...and to check. To make sure you were... you know with your hand and everything. And ..you were gone." Like hell he came to apologize, and if she had any doubts about her decision, they are gone now. She doubts she would have been able to withstand another relentless assault ala 3:30 am. Her defenses are shredded and she's too exhausted to hold the offensive. She decides to show mercy now.

"You don't have to apologize, okay?" It's not his fault. Not really. "We're good. What's done is done."

"But—"

"But nothing. Don't call me again." Pause. She can almost feel his pain. She closes her eyes and centers herself. She shouldn't have answered the call. If she weren't so terrified of plummeting to her death and no one knowing what happened to her, she never would have.

"Where are you?"

"None of your business." She cannot relent.

"I know." He surprises her with that one. She wasn't expecting agreement. "But can't you tell me anyway? Please? I want…" _If he says it, I'm hanging up on him._ "I want to know you're safe. That's not too much to ask, right? I mean…I thought we... I thought we were friends, at least."

She closes her eyes and sits down on the floor. Her legs won't hold her up anymore right now. "We were," she tells him.

"Were?" His voice wobbles in a sickening way. _Crap._ She didn't mean it like that. "I destroyed everything? I'm sorry."

"Alright." She closes her eyes. Friends? It's ridiculous that he should be so upset over the idea of them not being friends. It's ridiculous that she should find it heartbreaking. " _We are_. Okay? We are friends."

"So won't you just tell me?"

"Snow—"

"Come on, Light. As your friend." She heaves a sigh. She shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't tell him. It isn't going to make him feel better. He's just going to worry. He may even tell her sister, which will worry her too.

"I'm…" she should not do this. "In Taejin's Tower." She's an idiot.

"What?" He bellows at her. "Are you nuts? You know how dangerous that is! What could you possibly be thinking about?"

"I can take care of myself," she says, and feels her anger coming back. It's enough to get her back onto her feet again. "And anyway, it's none of your business. Not as my friend, or as my anything. Do you get it?" There's nothing but silence. "We already had this conversation." She waits for his counterargument.

"Just…be careful. Alright?" She's almost disappointed that he relented. Almost.

"Yeah, I will be," she promises. "And Snow?"

"Yeah, Light?" Why does he have to sound hopeful?

"Don't call me again." She hates him for making her hurt him. Why can't he just leave her alone?

_Why did you answer the call?_

"I…I just…I need to know you're alright. Will you check in with me?"

"No."

" _Lightning_. Please?" She hates him for hurting her.

"I'll…check in with Serah." This is not conciliatory. She always planned to check in with her sister. "And I'm going to ask Sazh to meet me on the eastern border of the Archylte Steppe."

"The eastern border? You're going to travel across the Steppe by yourself? " _Does he have to sound like that?_

"I've been taking care of myself for a long time, Snow. I'll be fine." She will be.

"I'm coming with you!" He declares. She knew he was thinking it, but she didn't think he would dare say it out loud.

"No, you're not." He exhausts her "You're staying home with my sister where you belong!"

"Lightning—"

"It's none of your business, Snow. _I am none of your business._ Get that through your head. Don't call me again or I'll dump the communicator." She disconnects the call, presses the communicator against her forehead, closes her eyes and just breathes.

She should not have answered the call. It was foolish. It was self destructive. It was cruel. Once upon a time she didn't mind being cruel to him. Now it makes her sick.

She curses the part of her that wanted to speak to him. She loathes the piece of her that needed to hear his voice one more time.

In case she dies.

She's pathetic!

She shakes thoughts of Snow and her weakness out of her head and focuses on the task at hand. She checks her clips again, sets her rappel device, climbs onto the parapet of the tower, puts her back to the open air and sits in her harness.

The first drop is always terrifying. She can check her knots and ropes forty times; until she sits back into her harness, she has no idea whether she's done a good job. Lightning isn't used to such an archaic means of descending great heights. She always had her anti-gravity field generator to break her fall. She just leapt from wherever, snapped her fingers and she was safe. It was faster, and far more efficient than ropes, hooks and clamps; and if by some off chance the device failed, there wouldn't even be enough time for her life to flash before her eyes before she impacted and died.

That was then. Now she has to rappel down the side of a two hundred plus foot tower.

She starts slowly, moving inch by painful inch. Her body screams at her for this fresh abuse. She ignores it. She needs to get down the side of the tower before the wind shifts. Right now, she's lucky enough that the tower shields her from the majority of the wind, but there's no telling how long that will last. She needs to move faster, reach the bottom and get her mittens back on before her fingers turn purple.

She lets instinct take over – it's never failed her before – and rappels in large leaps. Each strike of the balls of her feet against the tower rattles through her already sore body. Her toes all hurt like someone stomped them. She's concerned that the pain might be an early symptom of frostbite, but can't worry about it for now as there's nothing she can do. She kicks off, slides down and lands. Again. In the middle of her next rappel, she feels the wind shift, blow ice like razor blades into her face, and destroy her trajectory. She twists and smacks the wall hard, takes the impact on her bad right shoulder. She opens her mouth to scream, finds that she doesn't have the air for it. Her grip on the brake in her hand loosens and she slips down the rope unchecked – the speed of gravity minus some measly friction – panics, and thrashes for a long few seconds, before sense reasserts itself. She clenches her fist, stops hard enough to make every joint in her body pop. She pants and coughs, twists to get her feet between her body and the wall again.

_Suck it up!_

She looks down, sees the ground just a few stories below. One more good leap. Two tops. She grits her teeth, ignores the pain in her body and tears in her eyes, and keeps moving until she's buried to her shins in snow and ice.

She lays her forehead against the side of the tower for a moment, relieved to be alive. Her communicator rings again inside her bag and she swears aloud at it and the person who is undoubtedly calling her. She regrets taking the stupid thing with her in the first place.

She refuses to even look at the screen.

She disengages her rappel device, packs away her gloves, belt and clips. She flexes her fingers, feels the stiffness in the skin, the pain in the joints, and is alarmed at the livid color of her hands. She blows hot breath on and into them, chafes them together, and winces at the pain. She moves swiftly to untie the knotted ends of the rope and pulls until the rope comes free. She pulls out her mittens, slips them onto her damaged hands, coils up her rope and moves onward.

* * *

Lightning trudges onward through the mounting snow and despairs of ever reaching Mah'Habara. It's been four hours since she left Taejin's Tower and she hasn't even reached the Sulyya Springs. The temperature seems to drop with each step forward, and Lightning wonders at the odds of her freezing to death before she reaches the relative safety of the caves.

She wonders if Snow's dumbass-ery has somehow rubbed off on her.

"Some survival instinct," she grumbles, but the words get lost in the whipping wind. "Remind me again," she says to herself, "why you thought this was such a good idea." She takes a step and sinks up to her shins in the heavy wet snow. "Oh, that's right," she continues, panting from the exertion of moving. "It's because," she takes a breath that burns her lungs, "you're absurd."

"And to top it off," she exhales and coughs, "you're talking to yourself."

What is wrong with her?

She can feel the cold seeping through the heavy boots, but can no longer feel her toes. This journey is taking twice as long as it should. As she finally reaches the cliffs around the spring, the wind increases to an alarming, painful, and possibly deadly velocity.

Rather than offering protection, the cliff walls act like a wind tunnel, collecting the wind and funneling it down the pathway and right into her face. Once she gets into the canyon, the wind is so cold and strong that it actually drives her backwards a few steps for every ten or so she makes. The icy wind feels like it is freezing her eyeballs in her head and she wishes that she'd thought to pack goggles. Then she realizes that she doesn't own goggles, and decides that she's an idiot for not having them in a place where the weather is this brutal. This sort of cold can blind her; at the very least it will chap and windburn her skin. Cold desiccates skin, as does wind, and out here she has copious amounts of both. All exposed flesh will be at risk for splitting and cracking by the time she reaches Mah'Habara.

And if she doesn't reach shelter soon, her extremities will be at risk for severe frostbite and possible gangrene.

_Wonderful._

Lightning pulls her scarf up to cover her nose, breathes through her mouth hard into the heavy wool, feels the heat and moisture of her breath spread over her face. Her cheeks sting with cold and the moisture from her breath is adding to the chapping, but the brief warmth is worth it. It doesn't last long and she still feels pretty awful. Her mind is getting slow and muddled. She steps, stumbles and nearly topples into the snow. She shakes her head to clear the fog from her thoughts, rolls her head on her shoulders. She feels loose-limbed and uncoordinated. There's a near overwhelming desire to just sit down and regain her strength. Part of her screams about survival, about the danger of falling asleep while exposed, but she finds the concern vague at best. She stops moving forward, stares at the blanket of snow with as much longing as she'd felt for the warmth of her bed earlier.

Her training is whispering about hypothermia. If she is hypothermic and she doesn't get into shelter, she's going to succumb and die. No one is coming looking for her anytime soon. If she stops moving, she's going to become food for the animals, or a frozen popsicle. She squints her eyes as much as possible to shield against the elements, puts her head down to protect her face from the high wind and moves.

It takes a miserable eternity to reach the Sulyya Spring. It's unrecognizable, and it takes a moment for her to even get her bearings.. The flowers that were here when they'd last walked through are now buried beneath a layer of snow and ice so thick she doubts it will ever melt. The water is coated in white, spots of ice floating on the liquid waters. She'd been hoping this little oasis would be somehow immune to the winter weather and be the same as it was when she was here last with Fang, Vanille, Sazh, Hope and Snow. It seemed so unchangeable, beautiful and terrible then. She feels tears pool and chill where they touch the skin of her eyelids. She leaves them rather than risking wiping ice and snow on her already freezing cold skin.

She wonders if Bismarck met the same end as most of the other fal'Cie. She feels regret for a moment before snapping the hell out of it.

 _Have you lost it?_ She is ridiculous and absurd. Who the hell gets weepy and nostalgic over a forced journey that nearly killed them and destroyed all of humanity? Who mourns a fal'Cie that tried to kill them?

"Get a grip, Lightning," she whispers. Nostalgia is for wimps. Nostalgia for the worst time of one's life is for morons.

She fills a canteen at the spring, thankful that the water has not yet frozen over as this will be the last fresh water she will encounter until she clears Mah'Habara. She flinches when the icy water touches her already frozen skin. She needs to go now. She makes a hard push for the mouth of the cavern, hard enough to reach it in moments. She hides from the brutal weather in the shelter of the cavern. She makes her way into the cave and collapses onto the floor with a huff. She feels her eyelids droop, shakes her head hard to snap herself out of it.

She gets back to her feet, decides moving is necessary until she warms up a bit. She reaches into her pack and withdraws her communicator, sends Hope and Serah a message letting them know that she's gone away for a bit. She tells them she will be out of touch. She assures them of her safety (though her sanity might be at issue here) and promises to message them again when she reaches her destination.

She does not say where she is going. Hope will know soon enough, and Serah doesn't need to know that 'a bit' means 'forever.' She would like to wait until she is on the far side of Mah'Habara before telling Serah anything about her departure, but now that she spoke to Snow, that option is gone. Besides, the journey through the cavern can take as much as two days and she will not be able to send or receive messages once inside. She may be a bitch, but she's not that much of a bitch. Serah calls her every day and if Lightning doesn't respond, Serah will worry. Then she'll find that Lightning left without a word and she'll cry. And Lightning hates it when her sister cries.

She hates the idea of hurting her sister. She peers into the blizzard, back towards their home.

 _No!_ She's doing the right thing here. Leaving Serah now will be like ripping off a band aid. It'll hurt, but it'll be brief. Serah will have a whole life to heal. If Lightning stays, Serah's pain will be persistent and protracted.

The communicator starts ringing in her hand and she stares at the display: Serah. She sighs, unsurprised by the fact that her sister is calling. She considers answering before discarding the idea as stupid. Serah will know something is wrong as soon Lightning speaks to her. She'll hear the exhaustion and anger in her voice. She'll worry that something serious is wrong; that something terrible has happened. Then she'll tell Snow (seeing as how she lives with him and everything) and Lightning doesn't even want to hypothesize what that big idiot might do. He might open his big stupid mouth in a temper and blow all their lives to hell. She presses on the power button until the screen goes blank and the device shuts off.

"Sorry, Serah," she whispers to no one. She hates upsetting her sister, but she can't live a false life anymore. Staying in that hovel in that seaside town is killing her by inches. She'd rather go back out into the blizzard and die to be honest.

She moves further into the caverns. Mah'Habara is so warm compared to outside that Lightning almost kisses the goddamn stone walls. She shucks her hat and scarf and fur poncho and stuffs them into her pack. She'll keep the mittens for now since she can barely feel her fingers through the material as it is. She pulls her weapon, checks it to make sure the ice hasn't accumulated in any of the moving parts before holstering it again.

She needs to dry off and warm up. Her entire body is aching from the long hours of abuse. She needs to sit down for a few minutes, catch her breath and rest. She hadn't planned any such thing until she made her way well into Mah'Habara.

She hadn't planned any of this, to be honest.

"You're getting soft," she tells herself. Her entire body screams back at her in a crescendo of aching pain.

Lightning leans against the stone and slides to the ground. She is wearier than she'd like. Her right shoulder and arm are throbbing in time with her racing heartbeat, but she thinks she's warmed enough now to say with some certainty that she hasn't broken or dislocated anything. She'll probably be bruised from shoulder to hip, but that's manageable pain and won't cause lasting damage if it isn't corrected.

Her feet are aching and burning inside her boots and she knows she needs to check the damage. She pulls off her mittens with her teeth, sees that the swelling around her injury has gone down with the cold, but all her fingers are now plump and cherry red. They throb and burn so hot that she is tempted to go stick them into the snow to cool them down. She resists the stupid urge, knows the burning is from the frostbite. She moves them until they work well enough to unlace her boots.

She's dismayed to find that her socks are damp. She will need to do something to ensure her feet stay drier. She's just begun this trek, and she has miles and miles to travel. She pulls off the damp socks and finds that her feet match her fingers very well.

Definite frostbite. She hopes it is only mild. She doesn't think there'll be permanent damage, though she fears she may end up with some blisters. Those will be very bad on her feet since she's only just started her journey. She withdraws another pair of socks from her pack and slips them on. She pulls out a potion, takes a small amount and feels warmth spread through her. She could do with a fire and a bit of rest.

After all, someone ruined her night's sleep.

_/"Can I come in?"/_

_Jerk!_

She shakes her head hard. She reaches into her bag for her communicator again. She needs to let Sazh know she's on the way. She knows from his messages that his adventures sometimes take him away from the settlement for weeks at a time. Now that she's put a bit of distance between her and...yeah, anyway, she realizes that she should have contacted him already.

She digs, snags the bag on her finger withdraws it, and a black ball of cloth falls into her lap. She eyes the bandanna like an enemy, hooks the knot with her bandaged fingers and lifts it to eye level. She knows she should not have taken this token with her. It is a shameful sign of weakness and she is disgusted with herself.

Even in her shame, she still finds herself touching the golden hairs trapped in the knotted material. She pinches one between the pads of her thumb and bound ring finger, rubs the fingers together over the hair as if it were a butterfly wing.

_You're pathetic._

She drops the bandanna back into her pack, hopes that a bit of sleep will restore some of her strength to her-enough strength to allow her to leave the bandanna behind along with the rest of him.

She puts her weakness and stupidity aside and pulls out the communicator. She turns it on, sees the message indicator flashing. Probably Serah. She can't hear her sister's voice right now. It might break her resolve to keep moving forward and start over. She ignores the message and calls Sazh's communicator. It goes right to the voice mail system and she disconnects rather than leave a message. She has no idea what the hell to say to him anyway. "Hi, I'm on my way," will have him calling her sister faster than she can say 'Archylte Steppe'. It'll be better to wait until she's had a few days of walking to unwind; she'll call again when she reaches the other side of Mah'Habara. .

By the time she puts the communicator away, she finds her eyelids drooping. She skips the fire, despite her yearnings. _It might draw enemies_ , she reasons, though she knows she's only making excuses for her laziness. She sighs and settles for lacing up her boots again, pulling on her gloves, wrapping herself in a blanket, curling on the floor and slipping into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

_She stands in her living room, feet dirty and cold from the concrete floor. She hears the lock on the front door click in release. She closes her eyes and holds her breath._

_Three large steps, a hand on her arm whipping her around, fingers in her hair and he says, "just once," before he swoops down and scalds her with his mouth. "Once, Light," he breathes against her mouth. The tip of his tongue traces her bottom lip. He whispers, "I promise," before diving back in._

_She's insane to risk her whole life for one stolen night. Snow groans into her mouth, and all she can think about is stealing one night._

_Snow's left hand snakes down her side, fingers skimming between her pajama top and shorts. She shivers at the sensation as his fingertips trace her hipbone from front to back. Fingertips turn to a whole palm cupping the flare of her hip, thumb rubbing in teasing strokes just beneath the waist band of her shorts before he slides his hand around to rest in the curve of her lower back. He licks gently into her mouth as the fingers of his left hand dip beneath the waistband of her shorts to settle dangerously low. She moans, wraps her arms around his neck and her lips around his tongue. She feels his growl vibrate through her whole body as he drags her toward him, presses her against him with the hand on her lower back. She's up on her toes before she realizes that her feet have left the ground. He walks until she feels the wall pressed against her back and the whole, hard heated length of him along her body. Every inch of her tingles and burns. Her muscles are all clenching and relaxing to the rhythm of his tongue moving in her mouth, toes curling and uncurling, brushing the floor with each movement. He clenches the fingers in her hair and pulls downward and his mouth leaves hers. Her lips burn and throb in time with her racing heart. Snow's mouth finds her pulse point, latches on and_ sucks _so deliciously that she feels it in every molecule of her._

_She gasps and he moans against her, insinuates a muscled thigh between her legs and rocks into her. She's pinned to the wall, feet brushing the floor with each small rock of his hips, electricity firing along all her nerve endings with each rhythmic pulse. His hands slide over her body, under her pajamas, lighting every nerve ending aflame in their wake. Fingers brushing the sides of her breasts: teasing, tickling. She claws at his back, slides fingers up into his long hair and jerks his mouth back up to hers with a hard tug. He hisses and seals his mouth over hers. There's no more subtlety left as he presses his tongue into her mouth and licks every spot inside it. She tangles her tongue with his, slides it underneath, tastes too smooth skin and muscle and sighs. He moans, and it vibrates through her mouth and resounds through her whole body. He thrusts against her, cups her breasts in his hands and rubs the calloused pads of his thumbs over her nipples. She's so hot she's sure she must be on fire. She writhes against him._

_He releases her mouth, backs off and breathes scorching breath over her aching lips. She leans forward to taste him again but he holds himself away and she opens her eyes. His eyes are black with lust, only the thinnest trace of blue rings the dilated pupils. "I love you."_

_"Shut up," she says and he rubs against her just right, makes her eyes roll back and her breath catch. He licks her open mouth once, slides his wet-wet mouth over her jawbone._

_"I need you," he whispers into her ear, and flicks the lobe with his tongue, latches his scalding mouth onto her neck and moves against her again. She feels his teeth pressing into the skin on her neck, just the pleasure side of pain, before the pressure is gone and his tongue traces the outline. He rocks into her again and whispers, "I want you."_

_"You have me." It's the only consolation she'll offer. Just once, she reminds herself. She can have him just once. She needs him. She'd sell her soul for just once right now! Maybe the once will purge this demon from their souls; scratch the itch and sate the hunger. His mouth devours her again and she clutches fistfuls of his coat in her hands, hops up and wraps her legs around him, locking them together around his hips and grinds against him._

_He groans into her mouth and thrusts against her. She feels every last inch of him through his clothes, hard all over and harder still between her legs, through several layers of cloth. He presses against her again and lets her feel his need, ratcheting up her own skyrocketing desire. It's not enough. She needs more. Her fingers prod and grope, work under his coat and under his shirt to get a feel of his heated skin. He's wearing too many layers and she's still pinned. She shimmies and growls. He drops his hands under her thighs, backs away from the wall and staggers towards her bedroom. He pulls away from her mouth, presumably so he can see where he is going. She pants into his ear, bends to latch onto a spot on his neck before reminding herself that she cannot mark him. He is not hers._

_He is her sister's._

* * *

Horror pulls her from her dream, has her upright before she decides to move. The quick action sparks a wave of vertigo that has her closing her eyes again and almost topples her face first onto the floor. The dream flashes behind her eyelids and she snaps them open again, stunned at her brain's audacity and treachery. Her heart pounds hard in her chest and throat from the cocktail of anger, fear, and arousal swirling inside her.

"What the hell was that about? " she asks the empty cavern. Her voice echoes and she winces, waits to see if her impromptu exclamation will draw enemies to her.

She hates Snow…absolutely hates him for making her want him; for making her _dream_ about him. He never should have touched her. She should have broken _his_ goddamn hand for daring to touch her! If he hadn't showed up at her house last night, she would have continued on with her life in blissful ignorance of his feelings for her. She would have gotten over the disturbing feelings rolling around inside her; she _knows_ she would have.

She wouldn't be frostbitten in frigging Mah'Habara right now, having disturbing dreams about him while she sleeps on the stone floor!

She decides that they're not even real feelings anyway. There's a good case to be made for the idea that this insanity is a consequence of being branded and crystallized. Maybe the entire experience destroyed her higher brain functions!

That seems reasonable. There's no rational reason on any planet that she should have feelings beyond tolerance and irritation for Snow. He's an idealistic idiot.

Which might be the real problem. Perhaps the whole thing is an unfortunate consequence of too much time spent in too close quarters under too much stress.

That must be it.

The journey from Cocoon to Pulse and back was exhausting and soul crushing. She was certain she they were going to fail, and all humanity was going to die. She was lonely and desperate and so guilt ridden over her sister. Snow was optimistic and determined, unwavering in his faith and love. She just latched onto his optimism like a leech in her time of weakness. It seemed okay at the time. He held her back from the pit of her despair, insisted that they would succeed, that they would save themselves, save Cocoon. Save Serah. He kept her from giving up when she felt herself faltering; the unfortunate by-product for her was some sort of…twisted fascination with him. Like he was a flame and she was the mindless moth fluttering around him. And once she noticed him, it was impossible not to see everything: the blue of his eyes that put the oceans to shame; the crinkles at their corners when he drummed up his megawatt smile. His laugh that came from the bottom of his soul and infected everyone. His kind heart when he comforted Hope. His strength in all manifestations. _His mouth_...

 _Damn him!_ She should have kept punching him in his stupid mouth and this would have never happened.

She stands up and grabs her gear determined to keep moving. This whole thing is absurd and the sooner she puts distance (and time) between herself and this...this... _lunacy_ , the better!

She walks down the passageway that Atomos carved from the Sulyya Springs. She glances around the high caverns and notices new passageways since her last journey through this underground world.

"A fal'Cie's work is never done, it seems," she mumbles.

Lightning ponders the new cavern, wonders what new treasures lay within. The last time she was in these tunnels, she'd been running for her life. For everyone's lives, really. There'd been no time for sightseeing. She considers the new tunnel for a long moment before saying, "Screw it."

She walks the untraveled path.

* * *

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: All my Final Fantasy XIII stories were written prior to the sequels, and I made up a lot of mythology for my story universe. In other words, it's head canon.  
> Evolution -- which I will post on this site after I post DIDDTU? -- is over 250K words and, while a separate story entirely, informs my characterization.  
> In short, Etro is the Maker/Creator the Evolution-verse which consists of Evolution, Happily Ever After (one shot), and DIDDTU?


	4. Time Enough for You and Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow and Lightning may love Serah, but they constantly underestimate her.

"Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,  
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?"  
-Excerpt from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

Time Enough for You and Me

"So I was thinking," Serah says as she sets the kettle on the stove to boil, "maybe we should try to go out and visit Sazh and Dajh." She smiles at the idea. A distraction seems like just what the doctor ordered. "And I know that Hope will be happy to see you!" She knows that Snow misses his friends-especially Hope, who came to mean so much to him on their journey (not that either of them would ever admit it.) Besides, all this idle nail biting is taking its toll on her. On them. Ever since Claire...she shakes her head. She can't think about her sister right now. It's too upsetting.

She catches her original train of thought.

"Sazh offered to pick us up whenever we want. I think he's still secretly pissed," _or not so secretly_ , "that we settled over here instead of near him. We could go after the storm settles. It shouldn't be more than another day or so." She hopes. It's been too long already. Too long and her sister out in it. She stalls the line of thought. She can't go there.

"And it's probably warmer by them," _wishful thinking, Serah_ "and his last message said he could use some help." She turns around, expecting an answer from her fiancé. Any answer will do.

Snow doesn't answer; he doesn't even look like he's heard a word she said. He just stares out the window at the mounting snowfall. He's chewing on the cuticle of his right thumb. She can see the blood welling on his other fingers where he's bitten them all ragged. It's the same position he's been in for days. He's peering out the window like he can stop the snow falling by force of will alone.

"Snow?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't even flinch. She can see the dark circles that look like bruises under his eyes. His entire body is rigid and stooped with exhaustion. She heaves a sigh.

_This is getting old._

"Yeah, so then I'm moving back to Cocoon tomorrow. I thought it might be nice to go live in a giant shell. What do you think, babe?"

"Uh huh," he grunts. "Sounds good."

She shakes her head and smiles, but there's no humor in it. _Unbelievable!_

None of this is funny anymore. All traces of her usual humor are gone.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she declares. She decides to be as ridiculous as the situation. "Sazh and I are going to elope. Wanna be best man?"

"Hmm, sure." She pauses there, waiting. Seconds tick off like eons. She watches his brow furrow in confusion as her words register with him. "Wait, what?" He turns towards her for an explanation.

She raises her eyebrow at him and he lets out a sigh. "I'm sorry, Serah. I didn't mean to..."

"Ignore me?" She says it with as little emotion as possible. This isn't an accusation, after all. Being distracted isn't a crime. Neither is being worried.

He opens his mouth to protest before conceding. "Yeah. I mean no. I'm just..." he turns to look back out the window. He can't take his eyes off the snowfall for more than a few seconds. Hasn't been able to for days.

Enough. It's enough. She can't watch this train wreck anymore. She heaves out a sigh bigger than she is.

"I can't do this anymore, Snow." He turns to her looking panicked. She winces, realizes what she said and how she said it. It came out wrong, for sure. She rephrases. "I can't watch you do this anymore."

"I don't...I'm just..." he stammers, trying to cover, searching for an explanation. She lets the moment expand, waits to see if he'll finish a sentence. The silence hangs until it strangles. Another minute, and it will start to stink. She decides to do something before that happens.

"You're just worrying about my sister," she finishes for him.

"What? No, that's not it." The denial is ridiculous and she barks out a laugh at him. _Of course_ he's worrying about her sister. If he weren't worrying about her sister, she'd punch him in his face. Claire is out who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. _She's_ worrying about her sister! She hasn't slept for her worry. Her eyes feel like someone poured sand into them after days of crying.

All she's done for her entire life, it seems, is worry about Claire. Claire is the most infuriating, loving, self destructive person Serah knows. If Claire isn't hiding, she's fighting. If she isn't fighting, she's running. Right now, it seems she's doing all those things. "Well, I mean, yeah, I don't want anything bad to happen to her." He tries to look and sound casual.

He fails.

"Please! Don't do that. Okay? Don't insult my intelligence." The kettle starts whistling and she shuts off the heat. She pours it into the mugs, smells the chocolate scent waft up and smiles. She can't look at him when she says, "I see what's going on."

Snow walks over to her and takes her arm, turns her around with such care. He's always so careful with her. So gentle. Like he's terrified he might break her in half. Not like with Claire. She's seen him spar with her sister as if she were a man his size; as if she were his equal. The thought rings true, and she feels a sting at the knowledge. She _is_ his equal. More than a match for him. After all, she's seen Claire kick his ass!

"Nothing is going on." He's adamant. "Nothing! I swear it on my life, Serah."

It's a relief, though she'll never admit it.

"I know." She believes him. The idea of duplicitous affairs between her sister and fiancé seems absurd. Neither one of them have it in them to do something that terrible. Not to her anyway.

She loves them and they love her. She has no doubts about it.

She sips her cocoa and it warms the cold place that's invading her heart and soul. She places her mug on the counter, adds more hot water, stirs the cocoa in both cups before handing him one. He looks at it like it's a poisonous snake, takes it, sniffs it, sips it, then sets it on the counter with a scowl. She blows on her cup again and says, "It would almost be easier if it were."

"Serah!" He's horrified and appalled. Good! It's about time he joined her in this conversation. It's about time he rejoined their _life_!

"I think I'd know what to do with infidelity," she keeps going. "I could...be mad. Feel betrayed. I could throw things. I could hate you and plan and plot vengeance. But this?" She waves her hand around to in an attempt to convey what 'this' is. He still looks adorably confused. "This...broken pining." He opens his mouth to deny and she talks right over him. She can't hear his denials right now. "What do I do with that, Snow?"

"Serah, please!" He looks so broken. She feels terrible for doing this to him when he's so frazzled. He hasn't slept in days. He's been struggling to be strong for her while hiding his own misery. He's been carrying a weight that she's only just now beginning to understand. She feels like a terrible person for adding to it right now, but she steels herself and does it anyway. "It's nothing like that!"

_Isn't it?_

She spent days feeling the pain inside him, seeing it on his face. At first she thought it was for her benefit. It didn't take long to realize what was hurting him. Until this, she only had her suspicions. Things were strained and painful in ways that she couldn't understand. When she woke up, it seemed as if her sister and her lover had mended fences. They spent...a long time fighting back to back and side by side. The hostility that she remembered evaporated and left her with a family!

A few weeks into their new lives, she realized that she preferred the hostility; she knew how to deal with that. But averted glances, stilted conversation and weighted silences were beyond her ken. She couldn't figure out what the hell was going on around her. Everything was so anxious. Claire retreated so far into herself that Serah couldn't find a hint of her. In fact, she couldn't find any trace of Lightning anymore. She was more like a ghost haunting that crappy house than the vibrant woman that she used to be. Serah was terrified that she was going to lose her sister even as her sister was standing right in front of her.

Then she did lose her. Claire just...left.

The wounds from that abandonment are still bleeding even now. But one good thing came from it: Claire leaving distilled everything; boiled it down and revealed to Serah all the answers she couldn't quite place.

She would thank her sister if she didn't want to smack her across the face for this stunt.

"Please what?" She asks. She's trying to keep her cool here. She keeps reminding herself that he didn't cause what is happening. She is not angry with him. "I can't compete with this yearning you have. And I don't want to."

"There's no competition," he insists. She feels the irritation explode out of her.

"Of course there isn't! Because the competition up and disappeared, didn't she?" He recoils like she just stabbed him in the chest. His whole body sags and bows under the weight of his secrets and self deprecation. She blows out a breath, takes another one to steady herself. This isn't the way she wants to do this. She doesn't want to blame her sister. It's not fair. And it's not the real problem either.

Claire being here wasn't the problem, and her being gone didn't solve it. Blaming her for any of this would be easy, but incorrect. The truth is much simpler and more complicated than her sister attracting her lover's attention. The truth is that she and Snow are different people now than they were when they fell in love. The things he saw and did changed him; the time she lost and missed changed her.

Not their fault, but miserable all the same. She needs to let Snow off the hook here though. Being mad at him might feel good, but it's wrong.

"Baby, I know that you're not the same person you were before Cocoon fell. I'm not either. I don't blame you for that. It's not your fault. It's not my fault. And it's not Claire's fault either." She puts her hand against Snow's face and watches his eyes close. "We're all damaged and different. We saw and lived through terrible things." She just stagnated through them, and maybe that's the real problem here. She DIDN'T see those things. They're all stories to her. "Maybe we were stupid trying to pretend everything was the same when nothing ever could be."

He withdraws from her. He looks like he's going to fall over any minute-like he can no longer hold himself up under this growing weight. He sits at their table, head in his hands, long legs spread. So miserable and injured, it breaks her heart.

"I love you, Serah," he whispers to the tabletop. It's terrible and wonderful to hear it.

"Oh, I know you do, Snow." She sinks into the chair next to him. "I never believed otherwise. I love you, too. And maybe that's why I tried so hard to ignore what was happening. I figured it would go away and things could go back to the way they were." She wants to touch him, to comfort him, but she needs to stay her course here. She watches him wring his hands together. She lays her hand over his to still the movement. "But we can never go back, and all the wishing in the world won't make a damn bit of difference." She takes a deep breath and whispers, "The heart wants what it wants."

His eyes are threaded through with red when they meet hers. "I never wanted to hurt you. I hate myself for it." His words are like razor blades because she knows they're true. She hates the idea of him punishing himself for things that aren't his fault. "I swore it. And I thought—"

"You didn't. Okay? You haven't." She sighs. He tries to pull his hands out from under hers and she clings to him. How can she say this so he'll believe her? "I'm not saying it feels good," she says and watches him collapse a bit more. She continues with, "but you didn't hurt me." He doesn't believe her, but she can see he wants to. "You've hurt yourself though, haven't you?" _You hurt my sister._

He shakes his head in denial. His eyes flicker to hers and then nail themselves to the table top again. He picks at his scabbing cuticles and she tightens her grip on his hands to stop the ruination. His fingers twitch beneath her hands, but he stops hurting himself. She can feel him trembling beneath her hands.

"So, it was the night you went for a walk, right?" She wondered what the hell got into him that would drive him out into the cold, dark night. But he said he couldn't sleep, just needed to burn off some excess energy. Things had been so tense under the blanket of silence in their home that she was happy to have the reprieve. It never occurred to her that he would go to her sister. She thought that perhaps he was lost in memories of fighting. The 'war' had never been an easy subject for Snow or her sister, and Serah never pushed for answers. She suspected that he was wrestling with something enormous. It turns out, she was right. She just didn't realize how desperate he'd become. "I guess I really am dense," she chuckles.

His eyes snap up to hers, rounded and horrified. "Don't ever say that about yourself," he declares. "Never. You're...you're everything." There's a feeling like warm honey pouring through her. Still her hero, even now in the face of this ruin. It would be so easy to let this all go and try and force things back to normal.

No. That's not an option. She needs to get on track.

"Okay. You went to my sister's house and you finally told her..." she finds she's not brave enough to say it aloud for all her bravado. He looks away from her again. "You came home with some interesting bruises." She should have known. She should have seen it. He snorts a humorless laugh, but looks ill. She knows he never wanted to talk to her about this issue. She knows that if it were up to him (and Claire), Serah would never know any of the ugly things in the world.

She loves them and hates them for that. She's not sure which feeling is dominant anymore.

"And then she left the next day," Serah finishes.

"Nothing happened. I swear it." Well, that's not really true. But he's not talking about admissions and fighting. He's not talking about two people ripping each other to shreds to save a third. He's talking about sex. She already knows that never happened. If he'd had sex with her sister, she would have known it the moment he walked back into their home. Maybe before.

"Oh, I know that, Snow. You don't have a mean or deceptive bone in your body." She stands up because she needs to do something. She hadn't expected this to be easy, but it's harder than she dreamed by a factor of ten. She pours out his cocoa, pours him out three fingers of bourbon instead. She places it on the table in front of him. He grasps it but doesn't drink. He won't look at her. She sinks back into her chair. "And my sister would never hurt me."

The words are bitter and angry. Serah wishes Claire were here right now so she could smack her upside her stubborn head. Claire ran away rather than face this problem. A woman who squared off against the most powerful beings on two worlds, who stared death in the eye and then spat in said eye, was a coward at heart. She ran from her little sister – a woman who makes her fiancé kill spiders in the bathroom. What the hell is wrong with this picture?

Oh, Serah already knows what Claire will say. She'll claim she didn't want to hurt Serah, and Serah knows that she'll mean that with all her heart. But Serah would like to know what the hell Claire thought she did when she disappeared without a word? When she went haring off on some idiotic self-sacrificing mission into a blizzard.

Serah's going to have words with Claire when she sees her again. _If_ she sees her again. She slams the brakes on that line of thought. It won't do her any good to think such horrible things.

"It's not your fault, Snow. I thought it was the battles. The war," she hates calling it that, but that's what it was. It was a war for the survival of humankind. And she _slept_ through all of it! "Or maybe that we'd just grown apart because of the time that we lost." _Time that they stole from us. Time that my sister got to have with you._ She closes her eyes. "But it wasn't any of that."

Snow shakes his head. "I still wanted you, Serah. After everything, I wanted our life together."

"I know you did. And I did too." Part of her still does, but she will never speak of that again. "I think that was the problem. We were trying so hard to get back what we'd lost, that we didn't take the time to consider if it was really what we still wanted. We just...picked up where we'd left off and didn't think to wonder if we really wanted to live a life together, or wanted the idea of living a life together.." She wraps her fingers around his hands again. "But I deserve better than being the runner up in my own life and home. Better than being some sort of consolation prize."

He twists his hands through hers and looks into her eyes. "You were never a runner up." He lifts her hand and kisses it. "And you were never the consolation prize." She stares at him for a long moment, sees the truth in his eyes and smiles.

"I know." That's a lie. She wasn't sure at all anymore. He was so distant over the months; and time just pushed him farther away. She watched him disappear and she had no idea how to stop it. Still, he doesn't need to know any of that ever. Her insecurities are her business and will stay hers, now and forever. "But it's nice to hear though."

"I don't ever want you to think that about yourself. I love you." He's so sincere it breaks her heart.

"I know you do." And isn't that the tragedy here? He loves her, she loves him, and it's not enough for either of them anymore. "But you're in love with my sister." He flinches like she's burned him, relaxes his grip on her fingers but doesn't pull away. He wants to, but he doesn't. He's got more guts than her sister, that's for sure. He's here dealing with this mess while she's off doing who knows what. "I think I saw that before any of this started. Back on Cocoon, on her birthday."

"No..." he shakes his head. "I loved you more than anything. I couldn't even stand her..." he trails off, face paling. Horrified by his use of past tense, perhaps. Or maybe for insulting Claire. She considers for a moment. _Even odds-no bet_. She nods at him, acknowledging the truth in his words.

"Yes, I know. But she brought out such fire in you. A passion that I never could, no matter what I did." He snaps his mouth shut and furrows his brow. Considering. _He's never even considered it. Interesting._

She needs to move the conversation along. She doesn't want to know if she's right; it's bad enough having the suspicion. She never wants it confirmed, because that would make everything a lie. It's one thing for proximity, situational stress and camaraderie to create one set of feelings while murdering another set, but to find out that she took a back seat from the beginning? That's too much to take, even for her. She keeps right on going. "What I didn't count on – what I _never_ counted on – was her being in love with you, too."

"She's not," he blurts and somehow pales even more. He's now the color of his namesake. Any whiter and he'll disappear. She feels her face twist up into a mockery of her smile. _And here's the real problem._

"Oh, I beg to differ," she laughs, takes a sip of her cooling cocoa. "You see, because the Claire I know – excuse me, the _Lightning_ I know? – See, that woman would have put you in traction and then come over here to tell me what lousy piece of crap I was about to marry if you'd showed up in the middle of the night on her doorstep." _Saying and doing who knows what._ She bites the words back. She doesn't want to know what Snow said or did. She may be strong, but she's not an island. She's not a stone. She's not...Lightning.

And isn't that the problem here?

"She probably would have killed you for daring to hurt me." He lets out a small laugh but shakes his head once in denial. "But what did she do?"

He shakes his head hard, picks up his drink and takes a long swallow. She pretends she doesn't notice him trembling. She pretends it doesn't hurt. He wipes a shaking hand across his mouth then presses thumb and forefinger hard into his closed eyes.

"She sent you home to me." The words are more bitter than she intends. She can see they hurt him, and she's not sure if it's her tone or the words themselves. Perhaps it's a mix of both. He loves them both, after all. And doesn't that just _suck?_

"And then she packed up her whole life," she feels the tears burn her eyes and sniffs them back, "and disappeared." She looks out the window into the raging blizzard. "And she's out there getting her stupid self killed." She sobs, feels the fear she's been trying to repress rattle her entire body. It hits her like a gut shot and she feels nauseated and dizzy at once.

Her sister is going to kill herself. She may already be dead. Claire may have sacrificed herself in order to spare Serah's feelings. It's sickening! Then, the tiniest part of Serah is angry about the fact that she may be trashing her life right now for a dead woman, and why is she bothering?

She feels like a terrible person.

She doubles over, feels pain like she's never known rattle through her. The tears clog her nose, turn everything inside to liquid that wants to run out of her body too. She reaches for a napkin and wipes her face and wonders why she can't be one of those women who look beautiful when they cry. Serah's face gets blotchy, her nose spreads, her eyes get swollen and hideous. Claire looks like a damn painting when she cries! Why does Serah have to look like she's been boxing with gods?

"Light will be fine, Serah." He's comforting her and lying to her when he's spent the past five days pacing holes in their floors and refusing to eat. He's been so distracted between worrying and trying to hide it that he hasn't even really noticed his own misery. Or his distraction. Their lives are so screwed!

She doesn't dignify the lie. She pulls herself together and upright in one move. She sniffs, blinks and gets to the agonizing point of this mess. "I want you to go after her."

He recoils, looks like he's considering bolting out of the house into the snow in his light shirt and bare feet rather than continue this discussion. "She would never want that," he assures.

"This isn't about what she wants." _It's about what I want. I can't live this lie as monkey in the middle anymore._ "It's about what she needs." _Mostly._ "She _needs_ you to go after her."

He shakes his head and says with more bitterness than she's ever heard from him. "She needs me to stay away from her." Serah closes her eyes. He's probably right. Claire would not want him to come after her. She's getting angry now. Steaming towards pissed, in fact.

It feels great!

Perhaps this is why Claire decided to bury herself inside the hard shell of 'Lightning.' Claire was a girl who ached and hurt, while Lightning is a woman who rages and fights. It's hard to hurt when wrapped in the embrace of red hot anger. She may have just gained new insight into her sister. She hopes she'll get the chance to tell her.

"Maybe she does. Alright, we'll try this a different way then." She speaks through gritted teeth. "I'm tired of my sister sacrificing things for me. She's been doing it since we were kids. She gave up her childhood to let me have one. She gave up a normal future to let me have one. I'm not letting her give up—" _you!_ She leaves the last unsaid because, against her wishes, it still hurts. The idea of this man with anyone but her makes parts of her hurt that she's never acknowledged before.

They are the wrong parts though. The one that is most injured is her ego.

"I don't want it anymore. I don't need it anymore!" She yells the rest. "I'm a grown woman and I can take care of myself." The last is aimed at him as much as her sister.

These two people who won't acknowledge that she's not some fragile porcelain doll on a shelf. Won't realize that she's a grown woman with her own backbone and her own voice. She may not be able to kill something with her bare hands, but so what? What did that prove?

They may both be warriors, but they're cowards. She just proved she's the bravest one of them all. She just poured gasoline on her life and ignited the damn pyre!

"Your sister loves you," he defends. Snow defending her sister against her is surreal. _As if that is any excuse!_

"And I love her. And I've watched her give up one thing after the next so I could be happy. And I took it all. She gave up her childhood to become a mother. She got a job to give me a nice home. She never let me reciprocate. But I can now, and neither one of you is going to stop me!" He looks away. He looks ashamed. She grabs his chin and forces him to look back at her. "You love her. So what are you going to do about it, Hero?"

She watches his horror fade into indecision then into resolution. He smiles at her – a pale imitation of his usual grin, but progress all the same. She leans forward and kisses him, soft and lingering. His lips are dry and familiar and so, so warm. She holds the kiss longer, moves her lips over his to memorize the feel of them. She'll always love him, even if it no longer feels the same. Even if it feels hollow now.

"I'll always love you," he whispers. She giggles against his lips. He always was a smooth talker, and he knows her so damn well. She'll regret what they've lost, but she's not going to cling to the corpse of their love to the detriment of everything. She slides her palm over his face, feels the scruff of an extra two days worth of stubble. He's been so distracted that he hasn't even shaved.

"And I'll always love you too. Nothing will change that." She traces a thumb over his eyebrow, watches him close his eyes and lean into her touch. "You'll always be my first love. And my hero," she adds, because it's the truth. He sniffles, rubs his knuckles into his eye. "You came after me and saved me."

He swoops forward and gives her a deeper, longer kiss. He tastes of chocolate and bourbon, sorrow and memory. He breaks the kiss after a long moment, whispers against her lips and into her mouth: "We saved each other."

"Damn right we did. And now it's time to save Claire." He presses his forehead to hers and nods. "We always knew we were going to be family. We just got it a little backwards is all."

"I never deserved you." The words are breath brushing her lips.

"No, you never did," she quips, annoyed at herself for the tears she can't stop. He kisses one away. She's not hurt or angry; not by him or her sister. They no more wanted to betray her than they wanted to destroy Cocoon. They both turned themselves inside out to make her happy and it didn't work.

Still, this ending is heartbreaking all the same. Something that has been a huge part of her life for years is dying. It's the end of her childhood. The end of her innocence. It's her first real sacrifice, and the cut is deep and bloody. She's a woman now, sacrificing something dear to her for the sake of something precious. It's the right thing and it's a tragedy. It's unfair and beautiful. "But you might deserve Lightning." She sniffs and sits back, sips at her cooling cocoa.

Snow gives her a small smirk, nods and gets up from the table. She listens to him as he tears through their house, throwing together essentials into his pack. She walks back to her stove and lights the burner. The water in the kettle is still warm enough that in under one minute the kettle is steaming and whistling away. She pours herself another cup of cocoa, wraps her fingers around the mug and listens to her life unravel.

This home was never perfect, but it was hers. It was theirs. They built it to house their love, their family, and it is lovely despite the sadness inside it. It will be sad here for a time, alone in a house that's silent but for bittersweet memories. Then it will be filled with shades and shadows. Eventually though, it will just be a place. A nice home by the sea.

Snow stomps into the living room and throws his pack onto the couch. He's shaking out the heavy coat Serah sewed for him during the cooling autumn. She smiles as he shrugs it on, knows that the fur lined leather will keep him warm. She lined his gloves too, and made him a hat that complimented his fashion sense.

Snow's a handsome man. What's more is he is very aware of it. It's one of the first things that she learned about him. She always found vanity unattractive and off-putting, but it looked different on him somehow. Perhaps because it lacked the usual condescension and arrogance. Snow believed himself stupid and unskilled. He treated his good looks as and big muscles as his only attributes.

He never gives a thought to his generous heart or unending loyalty. He never thinks that protecting people should count for anything.

He always sells himself so short.

 _So much like Claire._ The thought never occurred to her before. She's always seen Snow and Claire as opposites, but perhaps they are mirror images. Two sides of the same coin.

She smiles around the sting of the thought. It'll take time, but she'll get used to it. She feels her lip quiver, and sucks in a hard breath. Takes a sip of her cocoa.

He sits and laces up his heavy boots. He glances over at her and stops moving. All the fierce determination leeches out of him as quickly as the color in his face. "Serah—"

She shakes her head at him. She can't waver here. It won't do any of them any good for her to cave into what's comfortable and easy. "You need to go."

"I don't—"

"Don't say anything. Alright? Just go." He stands, glances from the pack to her and back again. "You have to go now." He scrubs a hand over his head. Shakes it once and looks back at her. Still her Hero, sacrificing his heart to protect his soul.

She loves him.

And that is why she must let him go. She loves him too much to settle. Or perhaps the truth is that she loves the man who proposed to her, and that person is gone now. This man is no more that Snow than Lightning is her sister 'Claire.' Both of those people are gone. Their trials as l'Cie took them from her as surely as death took her parents. The difference here is that her parents had the decency to stay dead. The war left behind these bodies to taunt and torment her.

Sometimes she wonders why she had to awaken.

She shakes off the encroaching depression. Such ingratitude is beneath her, and she doesn't mean it anyway. She's just feeling sorry for herself, but there'll be time enough for that after Snow is gone.

Time enough...

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Put your hat on."

He does so without comment. Then he pulls on his gloves. He walks over to her and kneels before her.

"Swear to me that this is what you want. That you mean this. I love our life, and I don't want to hurt you."

Translation: I'll settle for this life if it will make you happy.

She considers the question. There's damage to her pride, for sure. No one likes to know that someone has fallen out of love with them. But if she's honest, Snow's not the only one. They both tried very hard to carve out a future together from the wreckage of their lives. They held onto their dreams so hard that they didn't realize that dreams were all they were. The reality never quite measured up, though she would have been happy spending her life trying to make reality match her fantasy.

But she's not going to stay with a man who loves another woman; who loves her sister! And she won't remake a man that her sister loves as he is, just to suit herself. She wants to be happy, but not if that happiness comes at such a steep cost.

And she deserves far better, _damn it!_ She deserves to be the leading lady in her own life.

"You haven't. But staying with me and living a lie? That would have hurt me. I didn't deserve that just to preserve my _delicate feelings_." It cuts that they both thought her too fragile to handle the truth.

"That was never—"

"You're both idiots," she barks, and he flinches. It feels good to lash out at him, but it's not how she wants this to end. She gentles her tone and her humor. "But I'll forgive that, because I love you so dearly." She tugs his hat down over his ears and straightens the collars of his coat. "Now you go. Bring my sister home safe. Promise me!"

He nods, places his hand over his heart and says, "I swear on my life."

She remembers aching with love for this man. Remembers wanting everything two people could ever have and give. She wishes...

It doesn't matter what she wishes.

He stands up and she follows suit. She reaches up and pulls his hat tighter over his ears. He gives a pale, sad smile, walks to his pack and slings it on and heads toward the door. She catches his hand when he reaches it and he turns around to face her. "You be careful." He nods and bends down and pulls her into another kiss. This one is bitter. And sweet. This one is farewell. He walks out the door into the blizzard. The air is frigid enough to burn on contact and she shuts the door behind him. She leans her forehead against it.

 _Please save her._ She doesn't know what the hell they're going to do if they lose Claire.

* * *

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t may seem like I took an easy way out here, but I really can't see any woman wanting to feel like a runner up in her own home. I don't know if you'll like my interpretation of Serah. Part of this interpretation developed in my story Happily Ever After. Besides, I don't like the idea of some stupid little girl being Lightning's sister. If Lightning is strong enough to give up everything for her sister, shouldn't her sister have some measure of that strength as well?  
> As to Serah referring to Lightning as Claire: My own personal interpretation of the character is that the death of her parents changed Lightning. (And that death in this universe is different from the canon. It's in Evolution. It's not really relevant to this story particularly). Lightning had to grow up before she was actually an adult in order to take care of Serah. She had to get a job, prove that she was capable of being a guardian for her sister, etc. As a result, she became an angrier, colder person. She still loves her sister, but she's used to doing what needs to be done. When Serah thinks of Claire, she thinks of he sister; when she thinks of Lighting, she thinks of the person her sister became so the two of them could survive. She also thinks of Lightning as the warrior, and Claire as the sister that loves her. 
> 
> It's just an interpretation. To everyone else, Lightning is always Lightning. To Serah, she's Claire, except under specific circumstances (in battle, for example).  
> It's just a characterization interpretation. That doesn't make it right.
> 
> Feedback is love.


	5. The Works and Days of Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope receives a disturbing phone call, and asks an old friend for help.

A/N: Thanks so much for all the feedback! Starting to actually work the plot into this story now. And I just couldn't resist fleshing out the developing world of Gran Pulse.  
Warnings: You might want to put a jacket on. It's getting cold outside, baby! No other warnings at all.

* * *

"Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps, down new roads, armed with nothing but their own vision."  
-Ayn Rand

The Works and Days of Hands

Hope's never seen this much snow in one place at one time before. Back on Cocoon, the weather, like everything else, was controlled by the fal'Cie. Every day was mild and pleasant. Rain could be turned on or off with a switch. There was no snow unless it was needed or wanted. Fang and Vanille told him that while the Pulse fal'Cie manipulated the environment to suit their needs, they didn't exert any real control over the weather. As a result, Gran Pulse ran the full gamut of weather, from scorching summers to brutal winters and everything in between.

Hope stares at the snow outside with an odd mixture of fascination and trepidation. The world looks beautiful wrapped in this icy shroud. But the temperature outside is dangerous, as is the fluffy, plush looking blanket covering the world.

"Hope? Why don't you come away from the window and have a look at these drawings?"

"Huh?" Hope turns from the window towards his father. Bartholomew sits at their table, surrounded by books and papers, scribbles and scraps. The fall of Cocoon handed humankind a tabula rasa of more than one type. No longer were they fal'Cie puppets; but the price of their freedom was, to put it simply, everything they'd ever known. Humans were starting from scratch with cursory knowledge and sparse resources.

They are at the end and beginning of all things.

"Would you like to see the plans for the irrigation system?" Bartholomew asks, raising an eyebrow.

A year ago Hope would have found the idea of looking at plans BORING! He'd have considered his father asking him some sort of secret punishment; a conspiracy by his parent to transform him into an automaton of epically yawn-tastic proportions. Now, he's more than interested in learning new things; he's fascinated by them.

When he thinks back he realizes that he always wondered how things worked. When he was a small child, he would sneak around and peek into drawers and closets, disassemble electronics and motors. He would sneak around in the underbelly of Palumpolum, crawl through the water and sewer system and stare at the fal'Cie Carbuncle.

Understanding the way things worked fascinated him. His mother called it a healthy curiosity and encouraged him on the sly. His father called him a busy-body and punished him for snooping. The punishments only forced him to get sneakier; they did little to discourage his explorations.

No, his father didn't kill his curiosity. That was the work of his classmates.

When Hope went to middle school, he found that being curious and interested in learning new things singled him out as an oddity among his peers. They called him names and picked on him. He was already small and a bit sheltered, and being mocked and teased felt like torture. So he abandoned his natural curiosities in favor of fitting in and being cool. He stopped exploring the city and started hanging around under the train trestle. He refused to look at the lattice work of the structure. Cool kids didn't care about how things worked or how they were put together. Cool kids didn't care about sewer systems, food supplies or infrastructure; they cared about fashion, hanging out, making out, and the latest video games. It didn't take long before Hope cared about those things too.

And it didn't hurt that his 'geeky' familiarity with the tunnels beneath the city gave all the teenagers new and more interesting places to hang out.

Now he's rediscovering his innate curiosity in a world where cool means precisely nothing. It's harder than he thinks, unlearning his forced apathy. But he's dedicated, and he forces himself to spend hours going over his father's plans. Sometimes he even works up plans of his own-designs for robots, computers or some other little creation.

Since his time as a l'Cie, Hope found that he has refined his mechanical skills. He can look at an item and see just how to make it work better. Sazh is even better at creating, visualizing and building than Hope. His friend's mechanical skills rival those of any inventor and between the two of them, they've put together some pretty cool things.

Despite his natural talents, curiosities and apparent usefulness, Hope is limited in how much he is permitted to do. He is restricted both by his age and his overprotective father. It doesn't help that Sazh agrees with his father, eliminating his only hope for an ally in his campaign to participate in this reconstruction.

He is, quite literally, trapped. Trapped in the body of a fifteen year old boy; trapped in his father's home.

He just wants to hurry up and grow up already! There are so many things he wants to do-things he knows he can do-that his father forbids based on his age. It's frustrating as hell. He helped save humanity. He walked with heroes and yet somehow he has a curfew again. It's absurd. He should be allowed to help fortify their community. He should not be relegated to the background, treated like some child with no mind or voice.

Hope's aggravated just thinking about it.

His father keeps saying, _'when you are older, Hope, you may go with your friend Sazh,'_ and _'when you are older, Hope, you may go out into the wilds and protect the settlers.'_ When Hope balks at being treated as a child his father says, _'For now, you need to stay here and learn. Read. Muscle we have in spades! We need minds to help create what the muscle will build.'_

The waiting rankles, but the worst part is that Hope knows his father is correct. If he wants to be a man, he must walk the path, not shove his fingers in his ears like a child and insist he be treated as a man. He must prove he's growing up by accepting that he's not a 'grown up.' He figures if he listens to his father, then maybe his father will listen to him too.

So he waits, and he learns; he reads and dreams.

He dreams of towers reaching toward the sky. He dreams of repairing, refurbishing and peopling the empty corners of Gran Pulse.

He dreams of Fang and Vanille returning to something a bit closer to the home they lost five hundred years before. He wants to create that for them. He wants to be the one to shine a light bright enough to abolish the shadows in Vanille's eyes and Fang's heart.

He misses them though they are right here: perfect and eternal.

He longs to rebuild Gran Pulse for them; he hopes that doing so will help them wake up. So whenever Bartholomew offers to show him plans, Hope fights the urge to roll his eyes and revolt in the manner of teenagers everywhere. Instead he sits and goes over every line and note on the drawings with his father.

He'll earn his father's respect, or kill them both trying, damn it.

And so he sits beside his father at the table now and stares at the newest drawings. Hope is surprised by the level of detail attained in the drawings, considering the archaic supplies at hand. They no longer have computers or datalogs to create digital drawings and three dimensional models. Now they have only parchments and graphite. In the summer they will press more flowers into pigments for drawings and paintings, and catch some fish and sea creatures that have natural ink sacs to vary the writing implements. But the winter killed all the flowers and the cold, snow and wind make any sort of fishing dangerous. The risk might be worth taking for food; a luxury like ink would never be worth the cost in lives.

So instead of color, he peruses the shades of gray drawn onto dingy white. Hope tries to visualize the designs as they will look once implemented while his father's hand skirts over the design. He tries to picture the piping, how they will excavate, what materials they will use. He tries to see in his mind's eye how the two dimensional drawings will translate into the three dimensional world. He envisions how the entire system will rely on gravity, running water from the stream and a series of water wheels, rather than depending on the scarce fuels and resources that they salvaged from Cocoon. Those scavenged items will only last so long and Hope knows his father's greatest fear is that they will run out of power before they've set up a suitable replacement power supply and infrastructure. People will descend into total chaos if no stability is provided before the last of the fuel is gone.

"This looks good," Hope says with total honesty. He looks up at his father and notes the pleased look on Bartholomew's face. "Will we use this to replace the crappy plumbing that we have now." He can't resist the dig, and he wonders why the hell he antagonizes his father all the time. His father frowns and sighs.

"Well, we'll have to develop a water treatment facility, and a sewage treatment plant as well. I'm afraid of what diseases might start tearing through the settlements if we don't take care of this soon." Bartholomew looks out the window. "We're running out of time."

Hope looks at his father for a moment realizing for the first time from where he inherited his instincts and sense of fatalism. Hope never believed he had anything in common with his father; now he wonders if their problem wasn't that they were too alike to get along. There's been too much to do for them to worry about their differences this past year. That might never change. Still, his mother was always the buffer between them, and now that she's gone, he wonders if they'll tear one another to shreds.

Thoughts of his mother always lead him to that fateful day on the Hanging Edge. If he hadn't been such a frightened child, his mother might still be alive right now. He cowered in his robe-a Sanctum supplied shroud-while his mother took up arms and fought PSICOM. She died protecting others: Snow, him. She was a hero and he was too angry at first to realize it. All he saw was that she was gone; that she sacrificed herself to save others didn't register. Once it did, he swore he would follow her example. He rubs at the sting in his eyes and swallows a lump in his throat.

He still misses her like an amputated limb. Almost a year later and it still hurts to think of her loss. He looks at his father and wonders if he misses her as much as Hope does. They haven't stopped moving for a year. They've been in crisis mode for so long-first he was a fugitive, then the world ended, now they're building a new society-that he wonders what will happen when things settle. Will they actually mourn his mom, or will her memory just disappear into the enormity of everything around them?

A shrill noise pulls him from his thoughts, startles him so badly that he almost falls off his chair.

"That's your communicator, Hope," his father says without even looking up.

"Oh. Yeah." Who the hell is calling? He left Lightning about six messages last week, but he doubts she's calling him. Something has been off with her and she refuses to talk to him about it yet. Hope hates the distance between them: both physical and emotional. He feels like he's losing her and he can't seem to stop it.

It feels familiar in the worst possible way.

He has dreams where he's back on the Hanging Edge, but instead of Snow holding his mother over the abyss, it's him holding Lightning. He swears he won't let go as he stares into her eyes, but she slips right through his fingers anyway.

Hope shakes himself from his stupor, wishes he could shake the dread as easily, grabs his communicator and checks the name of the caller.

 _Snow? What the...?_ Snow calling him can't be a good sign. Based on the frequency of calls between them, Hope would have guessed that Snow had no idea how to even work the communicators.

"Hello?" He asks, even though he already knows who's calling.

"Hey, kid." Something in Snow's voice sets Hope's teeth on edge, makes his whole body tense.

"What's going on? Is everything alright?" Snow heaves a sigh in his ear and Hope feels his heartbeat accelerate. _Something bad. Whatever it is, it's something bad._ "Snow, what's going on?"

"Have you heard from Light?"

What? Heard from Lightning? Why would Snow ask something like that when he lives less than ten minutes from Lightning?

"Not in a few weeks. Why? What's happening?"

"Damn it!" Snow huffs. There's noise in the background, but Hope can't figure out what he's hearing.

"Snow? What's going on? And what's that noise?"

"Don't worry about the noise." Hope shoves a finger in his opposite ear in an effort to hear Snow through the din on the line. What-is Snow standing in a wind tunnel? "Lightning left and no one's heard from her in a few days now. I was hoping—"

"What do you mean she left?" Hope cuts him off. "Why would she leave?" It's a rhetorical question for Snow. Hope never expects him to have an answer. He expects Snow to mumble, 'how am I supposed to know?' or 'you think she tells me anything?' accompanied by some subsonic grumbling. But the silence on the other end of the phone speaks volumes to Hope.

"Why would she leave, Snow?" Hope repeats, now looking for an answer. "And where would she go?"

"She's heading towards you guys." Hope doesn't miss the fact that Snow skipped over the first part of his question but he lets that go for now in the wake of something far more pressing. Hope stares out the window at the raging storm outside.

"W-wait. Wait." He can't get his brain to engage here. He's trapped in some sort of loop, unable to get past the idea of Lightning travelling in this weather. "How...How was she getting here? I saw Sazh the other day and he didn't mention anything about picking her up."

Snow sighs in Hope's ear again and Hope holds his breath in anticipation of what he's about to hear. "She walked."

"No, she didn't!" he declares.

"What?" Snow sounds confused by the certainty in Hope's declaration. _Not that confusing Snow has ever been a challenge,_ he thinks and immediately feels bad about it. Taking shots at Snow's intelligence-even privately-is neither nice nor fair. Snow is not stupid; he's just a simple guy.

"No, she couldn't have done that, because that's stupid. Lightning's not stupid."

Snow scoffs, and it's an ugly sound. "Well I hate to break it to you, kid, but she's sure as hell not a genius either!" Hope feels irritation creeping in at Snow's snarky comment. The desire to lash out at Snow's own dumb behavior bubbles up, but Hope represses the urge. It's not the point here. "Anyway, she did it. I spoke to her the day she left."

"She wouldn't...She wouldn't do that without telling me."

"Did you check your messages?" Hope's brow furrows in confusion. "She sent Serah a message the day she left. Said she sent one to you too. She didn't say where she was going in either though."

 _Wait. Back up!_ "But she told you?" There's so much more to this story and he's going to get to the bottom of it.

"Huh?" Either Snow is playing dumb, or Hope has been giving him too much credit this past year. He chooses to believe the former. For now.

"She messaged her sister, but she told you?" Snow doesn't respond and Hope wonders for the fifth time what the hell is going on here. "What the hell is going on, Snow?"

"It's a long story." Hope rolls his eyes. "Look, kid. Just, uh...if...I mean when she gets there. Just let me know. Alright? We're worried. I mean, Serah's...Serah's worried." Snow's voice trails off and Hope's even more concerned now. Snow hasn't sounded this miserable since...Snow never sounded this miserable. What the hell is going on in Oerba (or whatever the hell they're calling it these days)? "Will you do that?"

 _Not if Lightning doesn't want me to_ , is his gut response. But Snow sounds so miserable and Hope knows that he's asking for more than just his own edification here. "I'll...I'll let you know. Okay?"

"Yeah." There's a pregnant pause and Hope wonders if Snow has something more to say.

"Don't...don't worry. Light...Light's the strongest person I know." Another laugh. "She'll be fine. " Stating it makes him feel better. Snow says nothing. "Bye, Snow."

"Bye, kid. Take it easy, alright?" He disconnects the call.

Hope stares at his communicator, then looks out the window at the raging storm again. He scans through messages and finds that he did, indeed, miss one from Lightning.

_Taking a trip. Will be out of touch. Speak with you soon. - L._

"Crap," he mutters, irritated at himself for ignoring his communicator and missing Lightning's message. "You'd better be okay, Light," he whispers to the communicator.

"Did I hear you say your friend is coming to visit?"

Hope looks at his father, agog. He didn't think that Bartholomew would have the nerve to listen in on his personal call. "Yeah."

"She's not walking, is she?" Bartholomew looks up over the rims of his spectacles and Hope can hear the warning in his father's tone. Something icy travels the length of his spine.

"Yeah. She is. Why?"

"Damn it!" Bartholomew swears and stands, his chair clattering to the floor. His father never swears. It's enough to set Hope's heart hammering. "What would make her do something so foolish?"

Hope's hackles rise. It's instinct to defend Lightning, even when his father is right. "Don't call Lightning names!"

His father scoffs, then deflates. "I'm not. I'm just...I'm concerned for her well-being."

Hope feels like a jerk for snapping at his father. It's amazing how often he feels like a jerk these days. He wonders if he and his father will ever stop circling each other like wary dogs. "The storm is bad, but Lightning's a survivor." Saying it aloud makes Hope feel better. He knows it's true. If the fal'Cie and the Sanctum couldn't kill Lightning, a little crappy weather sure as hell isn't going to be able to take her out.

"It's not the weather," Bartholomew replies, and plunks back into his chair. The answer is the definition of unhelpful. Hope waits out his father, watching while he rubs at the bridge of his nose in what Hope has come to understand is a nervous gesture. The words are terrifying and vague; add to them his father's nervous tick and Hope feels panic start bubbling through him. Hope sits down across the table from his father, feels tremors in his gut radiating outwards into his limbs.

"What's going on dad?" He stares at his father and tries to extract the information by force of will alone.

"We've been trying to keep this information quiet to prevent panic." Bartholomew paces. "It looks like we've made a gross miscalculation."

"Who's we? And what are you talking about?" He's getting antsy and aggravated. If his father knows something that might impact Lightning's safety, then he needs to spill. Now. "Dad?" He prompts, tone clipped and angry.

His father doesn't seem to notice. "'We' meaning your friend Sazh and myself." No matter how much time Bartholomew spends with Sazh, he always refers to him as 'your friend Sazh,' so much so that Hope wonders if his father believes that is Sazh's full name. Hope is used to the oddity, but not so used to it that he doesn't notice that _it_ _is_ , in fact, odd. "We're not sure who they are... but there's a group of 'Marauders' that are roaming around and preying on people they catch out on Archylte Steppe."

Marauders? Gangs of people? His father is worried about _people_? It sounds ludicrous in a world where the animals are as tall as mountains; where predators the size of aircraft stalk the skies and menace civilians. A world where the weather shifts so quickly that a person can die of exposure in hours.

A world that has been called Hell – and rightly so!

"They're just people. Lightning can handle people. She fought the fal'Cie!" He's not sure who he's trying to convince.

"I understand why you would think that, Hope, but I haven't told you the whole story."

"Well, why the hell haven't you?" Hope snaps. It's one thing for his father to hold him back and impose curfews on him, but withholding information is a violation of trust that infuriates him. He may not be a 'grown up' yet, but he sure as hell is not a child either!

"I thought we would have time, and there were important things to address..." Bartholomew trails off as if he realizes how lame his excuse is. "But you're right. We should have told you." He pauses and reconsiders: " _I_ should have told you."

"So tell me now then." His father looks like he would rather eat glass than tell this story. It makes Hope even more nervous.

"These are not _just people_ , Hope. From what we can tell, this is an organized group with some paramilitary characteristics." Bartholomew meets Hope's eyes and says, "These people are trained, Hope. Do you understand? They're trained, and they're preying on small settlements. They are doing..." his father pauses and clenches his fists. "They're doing unspeakable things."

"I don't..." he gropes for the right word. "Understand," is what he settles on, but it seems weak somehow.

"No one can understand this sort of madness and desecration. Not even after all the horrible things we've seen." There's a long, pregnant pause where Hope's worst imaginings spin out through his head in full Technicolor. He has no idea what to say. How can this be true? Why did his father hide the information? How many people have been attacked? How many casualties have they suffered?

How long had this been going on?

"Where did they come from?" is the first question he asks aloud. It's probably the least important, but he finds he must know. From the look on his father's face, Hope guesses it's the one question he doesn't want to answer.

"We don't know. But your friend Sazh did a bit of digging, and based on his findings we've hypothesized that these men may have been left behind in prisons and such on Cocoon."

"Prisons?"

"Yes. In all the madness of our escape it seems that no one thought to save the prisoners. They were left behind, locked up, with no one to care for them. So every one of them was given a death sentence no matter how petty their infraction." The full meaning of his father's statement sinks in. They'd left people behind, locked up, unable to care for themselves. Hope tries to imagine the horror of being shut away on a dying world, abandoned and left to starve and die by those who were supposed to keep charge of them.

It is a horrifying and inhuman thought.

He realizes that his father has been speaking the entire time he's been meandering through the horrors of his imagination. "...until someone let them out, organized them and set them loose on the rest of us. And I believe they have quite the ax to grind."

"Who let them out?"

"We're not sure. We're not even sure if that's who they really are. But what we do know is that they are dangerous and organized. We assume they have military leadership. Possibly some sadistic faction in PSICOM who have found themselves unaccountable and unmonitored. Those sorts of persons would be like metaphorical children in candy stores in this new world."

"Why do you think it's soldiers?" Hope knows all about the sadism present in PSICOM. His father seems to forget that Hope was present during the massacre known as 'The Purge.'

"Sadists are present through all walks of life, Hope..."

Great! His dad is gearing up for a lecture when all Hope wanted was to know if the presence of soldiers is speculation or fact. Hope rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut and lets his father continue.

"...but not all of them have such specific training. The attacks look well coordinate despite their brutality. The hits come at sundown or sunrise. No one escapes them. Not one person. People are being systematically rounded up and..." he watches his father pale, feels himself go cold. Bartholomew shakes his head. "Never mind."

"So they're killing people." Hope knows it sounds lame and stupid, but he just can't seem to get his head around the idea that with so few humans left alive on two worlds that anyone would just destroy even more life. From the look on his father's face as he nods, Hope can tell there's yet more that Bartholomew isn't telling him.

"To be accurate, they're killing men." The word killing has an edge to it that tells Hope more than his father ever would. More is happening here than simple murder. His voice is grave and his eyes are serious when he says: "They're taking the women."

Hope feels sick to his stomach. He considers calling Snow back immediately to demand that he go out and hunt for Lightning right now. He stomps on the idea, realizing the absurdity in the notion of Lightning needing to be rescued. He looks out the window, pictures Lightning out on the Steppe alone, in this snow, surrounded by monsters and enemies and now predatory men. Alone and uninformed...

"I need to go!" He declares and looks at his father, preparing himself for a fight.

Bartholomew shakes his head, then rests his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands. "I know," he whispers and Hope nearly falls over in shock

"You do?" _He does?_ Hope expected a battle, not...understanding. It doesn't make sense.

Bartholomew stands up and walks over to Hope, puts his hand on his shoulder. "I don't want you to go. I want you here. I want you safe. But you're your mother's son."

The mention of his mother feels like a knife in his chest. He feels his eyes burn and feels ashamed at his weakness. Wasn't he just trying to be a man? Men don't cry! Hope wipes away the tear and sniffs, then looks back at his father.

His father pulls off his glasses and wipes his eyes.

"I see her every day in you, you know." Bartholomew walks to the sink and pours himself a glass of water. He takes two big gulps, wipes a hand across the back of his mouth. "Sometimes I can't bear it," he admits. Hope feels his face heat and his fists clench. "I loved her so much, and seeing her in you is...incredible. You're all I have left of her and the idea of losing you..." Bartholomew clears his throat and sits back down.

"Your mother was never one to sit back if others needed help. She wouldn't have been her if she hadn't taken up arms during The Purge." Hope can't look at his father anymore. He can't watch his father tremble as he speaks of a lost love; a lost wife. How could Hope have doubted this man's love for his mother? Or himself, for that matter? He looks out over the frozen world beyond the window, holds his breath in anticipation of his father's next words. "And I know you can't just sit here either. So go ahead and find your friend, and bring her home safely."

Hope is moving before his father finishes his sentence. "HOPE!" his father calls as he makes it to the threshold of his bedroom. He stops but refuses to turn from his intended path. He needs to get to Sazh, get the aircraft and go search. "Be careful and come home."

"I will," Hope agrees as he pulls his empty pack from under his bed and starts to fill it. He finishes quickly and layers his clothing. He pauses to take stock of his room, spots the box on his dresser and lifts it with shaking hands. He takes the key from around his neck and unlocks the box. He lifts the bandanna from within and unfolds it to reveal the crystal within.

Alexander.

Hope knows that the Eidolon will not respond to him anymore, assuming it even exists. The crystal is more like a good luck charm. He wraps it back up and slips it into his pocket.

He grabs his pack and slings it on. He looks out the window towards the nearby Cocoon. The storm conceals it, but he knows it's there.

He knows _they're_ there. Always there, waiting. Hope swallows.

He's lost too much already. He refuses to lose Lightning too.

* * *

The walk to Sazh's house usually takes thirty minutes. The snow, cold and wind triple the duration and by the time Hope catches sight of Sazh's house, he's frozen nearly through. His feet burn and throb in his boots. He looks down at them, spots the black laces flailing around in the storm like a shredded flag. He bends at the waist, nearly topples face first into the snow when the weight on his back shifts higher on his shoulders and falls victim to gravity. He bends his knees, regains his balance and barks out a loud curse that would make Fang blush. He exhales a white breath and reaches for his laces. He's ham-fisted, fingers refusing to bend inside his gloves. It takes three tries to get the laces tied, and that is only after he gives up on traditional bows and went with the 'bunny ear' technique. He feels like a five year old again, his mother making a big ear and a small one, and saying 'the bunny goes around the tree, into the burrow and...pull Hope.' He sniffles at the memory even as he follows the instructions and ties a perfect bow with his frozen fingers.

He stands upright; the weight on his back shifts again, falling hard enough to nearly jerk him onto his ass in the snow. He shakes off the embarrassment, balls up memories of his mother and focuses on moving forward. Every part of him feels frozen and heavy and he wonders what the hell Lightning could possibly be thinking trying to journey across the world in this weather when he can't even make it across his town.

She is the bravest, stupidest person he knows.

He reaches Sazh's door and thumps on it with a swollen hand. He underestimated the dangers of the storm. He's going to need to reassess his gear if he's going to live through this journey. Of course in order to do any of that, he needs to get inside and get warm. He pulls both hands to him and sticks them in his armpits, and kicks at the door gently with one club foot, then rests his head against the wood and wonders if it's possible that Sazh is away. He wonders if he'll make it back home before he loses feeling in all his extremities.

_Or, you know, dies. Whatever._

The door disappears and Hope topples forward like a felled tree. He doesn't even pull his hands out from under his arms to brace himself. He's too cold to move and figures his face will break his fall nicely, thank you very much.

Hands snatch him mid-fall and Hope decides he'll be relieved later. He's too cold to feel anything right now.

"Hey now!" Sazh exclaims. He pulls Hope up and in and kicks the door shut behind him. He turns Hope around to look at him and says, "Hope?"

"Hey, Sazh!" Hope gasps through chattering teeth before choking on the words. The cold air seems to have aggravated his lungs. And everything else!

"Kid, what are you doing here?" Sazh takes Hope's hat off, reaches for a towel and throws it over Hope's soaked hair. "You're damn near frozen through!"

"Tell me about it."

"Get out of that coat and those boots!" Sazh walks over to the sink, fills a kettle and sets it on the stove to boil. Hope uses his teeth to peel his gloves off and gets his first look at his reddish-purple fingers. Sazh turns around and says, "Damn it!"

He storms over to Hope and works the buttons on his coat, then the laces on his boots. He yanks the first boot off before Hope is ready and nearly sends Hope backwards through the front door. Hope is more prepared for the second one and uses his aching hands to brace himself. Then Sazh yanks off his pack and coat with more force than necessary.

"OW!" Hope yells, though the entire episode is more hurtful to his ego than his body. Sazh seems to know it too because he doesn't miss a beat filling a bowl with warm water and setting it on the table.

"Sit down, shut up and put your hands in that water." Hope follows the instructions. He winces and flinches away.

"That's hot!"

"No it's not! Your skin is frozen. Put your damn hands in the damn water!" Sazh stoops and pulls off Hope's socks. Hope looks down at his feet and is happy to see that they look pale.

"Damn it!" Sazh slides another basin beneath his feet. "Put your feet in that now!" Sazh stands up looking angrier than Hope can ever remember seeing him. He looks like steam is going to shoot out of his ears. Sazh opens his mouth to yell some more—

The kettle whistle interrupts.

Sazh marches over to the kettle and shuts off the heat. He grabs a mug and spoons something into it before pouring in the water. Hope smiles at the thought of hot cocoa. No one has made him a cup of cocoa since his mom. He smiles at Sazh when he places the mug in front of Hope. Hope stares into the mug at what appears to be cloudy water. He frowns.

"What's that?"

"Hot water and sugar. The breakfast of champions."

"Pass."

"Drink it. This isn't a debate. That's frostbite, genius! You need warmth, fluid and sugar and this is the fastest delivery system I have for all three." Sazh gives him the hairy eyeball. "You don't drink it and I'll hold you down and pour it down your throat. And don't think I won't do it either!" Hope scowls at the threat.

Hope lifts his hand out of the cooling water and takes a sip of the sugar water. It's too sweet and he flinches at the taste, but Sazh is shooting him a death glare. He takes another sip, finds the taste far less offensive the second time. Sazh changes the water in the bowl and places it back in front of Hope.

"Wanna explain to me what the hell you're doing wandering around in this storm? I thought you had more sense than that."

"I do. And I'm not 'wandering.'" Hope finishes the atrocious drink and scowls at the dregs on the bottom. "Lightning is."

"Make sense, kid! What are you talking about?"

"Lightning is on her way here. Now. In this."

Sazh stands up and walks to the counter. He leans against it and stares through the sidelights on the door. "And you know this how?"

"Snow called me. He's...concerned." Terrified is more like it, but Hope keeps his judgments to himself.

"Well he sure as hell should be!" Sazh barks. Then he mumbles, "Crazy woman. What can you be thinking?" Sazh's posture radiates tension.

"We need to find her," Hope declares.

"Hope, you got frostbitten walking to my house. How are you going to walk across the Archylte Steppe?"

Hope doesn't miss Sazh's omission of himself from the scenario. A lead weight settles in Hope's gut. It never occurred to him that Sazh would refuse to help him save Lightning. "I was hoping that we'd fly," he mumbles.

"Not in this weather, we won't."

Hope feels desperation kick in. He can't do this on his own! "But—"

"No buts," Sazh snaps and then turns to the window. "Getting ourselves killed won't do anyone a damn bit of good." He heaves an enormous sigh and smacks his forehead into the cold glass before him. Hope keeps quiet, knows that Sazh is considering his options and to talk right now might tip the scales in the wrong direction. Sazh murmurs, "Damn it, Soldier." Hope watches the words fog the glass and then disappear. He needs to say something.

"Please," he barely recognizes the small voice but it seems to get Sazh's attention. He turns and faces Hope. " _Please_ , Sazh. I can't...I can't lose Lightning." Hope feels his lip tremble and his face heat. He's supposed to be a man now. Men don't blubber and babble. Men fight for what they want. But he doesn't feel strong right now. He feels like the same terrified boy on that catwalk on the Hanging Edge, watching his mother die.

"Haven't we lost enough?" _Haven't I lost enough?_ "How can we lose her too?" Sazh flinches. "I mean, we just watched..."

"I know it, Kid." Sazh walks over and sits heavily in the chair next to him. He puts his head in his hands. "I miss them too." Sazh looks out the window, stares into the storm in the vague direction of Cocoon, Fang and Vanille. "Don't think I forgot it. They saved us all and I can't help but be pissed at them for it. How's that for gratitude?"

Hope feels like he's balanced on a precipice. Sazh hasn't sounded this bitter since the Sanctum took Dajh from him.

"Alright, kid." Sazh acquiesces. "You're right. I'm done losing the people I love. We can't fly, but I've been working on something that we can use." Hope tries to jump up. "Hey now, wait a minute!" Hope looks down at the basin he's standing in and looks back at Sazh. "Put your ass back in that chair. It's going to take me some time to get ready and pack up Dajh to drop at your dad's house. And you need to thaw out."

"We don't have—"

"Time? We have as much time as we need. The Soldier is tough. She's got a better chance surviving this mess than we do, that's for damn sure."

Sazh moves like a whirlwind through the house. Hope hears Dajh's quiet protests to being yanked from sleep. Sazh's voice is a melodious murmur. He speaks too softly for Hope to catch words, but the cadence lulls him, reminds him of their travels a year ago. Whenever he couldn't sleep, he'd eavesdrop on conversations between his friends. His snooping gave him insight into Sazh's hopes, Snow's fears and Lightning's sadness. They discussed topics with one another that they never would have broached with him. He was the 'Kid' and was shielded from ugly truths and fears.

It pissed him off then. It still pisses him off now.

Sazh enters the room bundled up like a mummy and slips out the door without a word. Hope stammers and curses. Giggling from the corner startles him.

" _Ooh!_ You said a bad word!" Dajh says, pointing at him, eyes round as saucers and lips quirked up in a small smile.

 _Crap! How did he not notice Dajh?_ Hope blushes to the roots of his hair. "Uh," he rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah. Sorry. I shouldn't have said it and I'm sorry. It's our secret, okay?" The last thing Hope needs is a lecture from Sazh about swearing within earshot of his son.

Dajh smiles at him and says, "Okay, Hope." Dajh walks over and sits on the floor to tie his boot laces. Hope notes him looping the laces like bunny ears and he smiles, feels the sting in his eyes. "Don't worry. Daddy says bad words all the time when he thinks I can't hear him." Dajh gives Hope a devious smirk and Hope feels his own shock smearing across his face.

He bursts out laughing as Sazh comes back into the house.

"What's so funny?" Sazh looks at Hope and over at Dajh. Dajh shrugs at his father and Hope only laughs harder. "Have you lost your mind, kid?" Sazh walks over and drops two pairs of socks and another sweater next to Hope on the table. "Put all that on. We're going to be in the Snow Kat – that's what I call my newest creation – but it's still colder than a witch's..." he glances at his son mid-sentence. "Well anyway, it's cold. And you can't afford to let that skin refreeze."

Hope laughs even harder, thinking of Dajh's confession about his father's bad words. Sazh gives him the stink eye for a minute before turning towards his son. "Dajh, do you have your things?"

"Yes, dad."

"You're a good kid, you know that?"

"Yes, dad!" Dajh agrees.

"And humble too," Hope mumbles. Sazh smacks Hope upside his head without missing a beat and continues talking to his son.

"Would you mind helping me out here and putting this bowl in the sink?" Dajh rushes over and grabs the bowl. "Careful not to spill the water!" Hope watches Sazh watch his son and finds himself missing his mother all over again.

Hope loves his father but it takes effort and work to talk with him, whereas everything between his mother and him was natural and unforced. Like Sazh and Dajh.

Hope shakes his head, dries his foot off with the towel Sazh gave him and slips the sock on. The soft material feels like sandpaper and he can barely stifle the yelp at the pain of contact.

"That hurts?"

"Yeah." Sazh disappears for a minute and comes back with a roll of gauze.

"Wrap them first." Hope starts winding the gauze around his feet and Sazh watches before saying, "Just so you know, the pain is actually a good sign. It means you still have feeling." Sazh pulls out some bizarre contraption that looks like the bastard love child of a datalog and microwave.

"What's that?" Hope asks as he winds gauze around his other foot then pulls the sock over it.

"This? This is a locator." Sazh fiddles with a knob that Hope thinks he may have stolen from a Hoplite corpse.

"What the hell..." Sazh shoots him a glare and Hope realizes that Dajh is giggling away on the other side of the room. Hope winces. "I mean...what's a locator?"

Sazh heaves a sigh and fiddles with the knob some more. He taps the screen with a fingernail and the furrow in his brow melts into a smile. "You know those communicators that I built?"

"Yeah." Hope rolls his eyes. He helped Sazh build them but does he ever get any credit? _NO-O_ **!**

"Well, I added a feature to them that I never told anyone about." He turns the screen towards Hope and points at a flashing red light. "So that we could find anyone who might get lost."

"That's Lightning?" Hope asks, feeling optimistic for the first time in hours.

"That's Lightning!" Sazh sounds pleased. "Or it's her communicator, at any rate. And it gives us a starting point." Sazh stands up and walks over to Dajh, scoops up the boy and gives Hope a baleful look. "Hurry up. We need to get our asses moving if we want to reach the soldier before sunrise." Hope is out of his chair and in his coat before Sazh finishes his sentence. "And I'm going to give that woman a piece of my mind, let me tell you!"

Hope is looking forward to that particular lecture.

* * *

TBC...

I can't resist pulling Sazh into any story. I'm tired of him being relegated by fanfic writers everywhere to the background. I think he's smart and funny. 


	6. Certain Half Deserted Streets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Winter is not a season, it's an occupation."  
> -Sinclair Lewis

"Winter is not a season, it's an occupation."  
-Sinclair Lewis

Certain Half Deserted Streets

Mah'Habara is far more pleasant now than it was when they were all running for their lives. The caverns lack the urgency and pervasive doom that they held last year. The choice to follow the new path rather than the familiar one was foolish and impulsive. Lightning considered turning back several times before saying a silent 'Screw it' and continuing onward. She is no coward, and there's nothing in these caverns she can't handle.

The new tunnel turns out to be a great choice, much to her surprise. The fresh carved cavern is free of not only the debris of destroyed machines that litters the well-worn path, but the still active self-repairing machines of war that are an animated testament to Pulse's rich and war-filled history. Not having to battle the machines is a pleasant surprise. The Pulse machines are dogged and difficult enemies. Considering the throbbing in her broken hand and the aching in her body from her impromptu smash against the side of Taejin's Tower, Lightning isn't sure she'd be up to the task of taking them on.

Of course, the new tunnel has its own hazards as well. There are loose rocks on both floor and ceiling, fresh sinkholes that almost break her ankle a few times, and a few scattered nests of Ceratosaurs that she figures most likely sought shelter from the terrible weather in the warm caverns. All of these things make the journey more interesting and difficult than a simple walk in a park, but Lightning can't seem to mind any of it.

Besides, walks in parks have never been her bag. Give her a good spar over a stroll any day.

Sure, the journey down the new tunnel tacks an extra day or so onto her journey, but being inside after close to a full day in the harsh weather feels fantastic. The cold that invaded the core of her body has dissipated. The skin on her fingers has regained its elasticity. The swelling is gone, and the coloration is once again normal. Her hands feel tip top! Not to mention how thrilled she is that she managed to avoid developing any blisters from the frostbite on her feet.

All in all, she feels better than she has in months.

Moving on agrees with her, it seems. Having a plan (vague though it may be) improves her general outlook on life by two hundred percent. Each step forward lightens the burden in her heart, gives her something to think about other than the four walls of her rotting cage, and the big blond holding the other end of her leash.

_Not going there._

A shift in her surroundings pulls her from her quiet thoughts. It's a small thing, so small that it takes a moment to sink in.

She's headed upwards.

Lightning feels the change in the incline of the path as a small burn in her calves and a stretch in the soles of her feet. She's heading back towards the surface and is not sure if she feels relief or disappointment; perhaps it's a bit of both in equal measure. The end of this path marks the beginning of the next leg of her journey, true, but it also means she'll be back out in miserable, freezing weather.

Her thawed toes ache and weep in anticipation of refreezing.

She continues walking up the slight incline until it grows steep. She's doubled over at the waist in an effort to keep her center of gravity stable. When the path shifts to an even steeper angle, she drops to all fours to haul her way up the slope. Her right hand still hurts where she fractured it and she finds herself favoring it. The few days of relative rest haven't helped as much as they should have. She guesses that she did a good deal of damage to her hand in her exhausting ascent of, and terrifying descent from Taejin's Tower. Based on the constancy of the pain, she guesses that her hand will require some corrective surgery at some point.

She misses the days when a small spell would have knit the bone in minutes. She doesn't miss being a l'Cie per se, but at times misses the convenience that the power and magic afforded her. She sometimes misses being something other (more?) than human, and no longer subject to all the frailties thereof.

There are no words for just how screwed up she is these days.

Reaching the top of the incline is more trouble than it should be. It leaves the knees of her pants dirty and worn, and her right hand aching and bruised. The air at the top is half the temperature of the rest of the cavern and she shivers and curses. She should be happy that she's near the end of the tunnels.

She's really not.

Being unhappy is not unusual for her these days, so she dismisses her feelings and concentrates on what matters: surviving. She pulls off her pack and pulls out her cold weather gear, dresses quickly. She pulls on the sweater and poncho, slides on her climbing gloves for now. She'll put the mittens over them when she's outside. She starts moving again.

"It's all about layers," she says to the empty cavern. It whispers back an echo and she smiles. Echoes have been her only companions for the past few days. She's found herself speaking aloud to nothing just to experience something like a conversation.

When did this happen? Lightning never fancied herself a social creature. She was always happiest on her own, doing her own thing. Being alone never translated into being lonely for her as it did for some people. She enjoyed the peace and solace she found by herself. She never considered herself antisocial; just a solitary person. An island unto herself.

Now she finds herself craving the laughter she shared with Fang, missing the quiet conversations with Sazh, longing for the mutual affection she shared with Hope, and yearning for the comforting evenings on watch with Snow, getting to know one another by sharing memories of their one common link.

/Can I come in?/

Snow. It seems like he is the last station for all her trains of thought these days.

She stomps on the budding sentiment before it has a chance to germinate within her. There are important things to focus on now. She has a few days with herself, testing her own mettle and skills against the dangers of Gran Pulse. Once upon a time, such a challenge would have been more than exciting. It would have been enthralling and irresistible. She misses the days when things were simple.

She stops moving, brain tripping over her last thought.

Did she just think of the days when the fal'Cie kept them as pets, held humanity's existence in the palms of their metaphorical hands, murdered at will and ruined everyone's lives as 'simple times?'

Why yes; yes she did. And what's worse is that she meant it.

She sneers and moves faster. She is so damaged it's ridiculous. This is why she never delves into the darkest reaches of her heart and mind! It's like kicking over large stones: something slimy and nasty is always living underneath.

She supposes that she knew she missed being a soldier on some basic level. Having orders to follow and a chain of command kept things simple. Right and wrong were dead issues. There were orders to follow, and targets to destroy, and that was it. It never occurred to her to question the legitimacy of her orders, or the motivations of her commanding officers. She was a cog in a larger machine, and that machine only worked if all the parts did their jobs. She appreciated the simplicity of the overall design, and was happy for her place in it.

Then the Pulse Vestige appeared, the Purge happened and Lightning's entire world crumbled around her. For the first time since enlisting, she questioned her beliefs. She questioned her orders.

She questioned her entire life: everything she ever did, knew, thought, or was. She was forced to confront the entire hierarchy of her life and then tear it down to its foundations. It was as terrifying as it was satisfying.

After the fall of Cocoon and the end of the war, things normalized somewhat. There was total chaos followed by an uncomfortable and tenuous calm. No one quite believed that things were over-least of all Lightning. But days passed and life resumed. Days turned to weeks then months and there were no more apocalyptic threats; just the day to day dealings of life.

No more was every conversation about surviving the next battle. Soon conversations turned to routine things-food and shelter, constructing and rebuilding; grieving, mourning and moving on. She took part in discussions even as she tried to figure out where she fit into this brave new world. She was lost and flailing in this normality. She was alone where her friends all had families-Hope had his father, Sazh his son, and Serah and Snow had each other and the family they would make. She was an outsider in her own life and the only other family she ever knew-the Guardian Corps-no longer existed. She was a woman with no family and a soldier with no army.

But that didn't stop her from trying. Lightning is many things, but she's no quitter.

Every day she would try, and every day she felt as if she were trying to shove square pegs into round holes. She contorted herself to make it work, bent and twisted until she was tied up into knots. She never fit, and it never fit her. She knew it but ignored it; figured she could fake it until she made it.

Then Snow showed up on her doorstep and upended her entire world for the second time in a year. He nuked her entire world view with a look and a stolen kiss.

She rubs at the growing ache in her head. She hates thinking about these things. Thinking about the past never did her a damn bit of good. Thinking about Snow and the bandanna secreted into her bag is forbidden.

He is not now, nor will he ever be, hers to want.

So yes, things were simpler then. Life was easier when she had a clear, distilled purpose. Life was easier when her sister was innocent, Hope had a mother, and she hated Snow. Life was simpler before she ever heard the names Fang and Vanille. It was easier to believe that Gran Pulse was some sort of nightmare hell world full of monsters and demons.

It was easy, but she wouldn't go back. She wouldn't trade the unhappy present and the uncertain future for that simple past. To even indulge the idea is a blasphemy against all those who suffered and died to buy their freedom.

It's an insult to her lost friends.

Thinking of Fang and Vanille makes her ache. She's not sure how two people she knew for such a brief time could come to mean so much; how she can miss them in her day to day life when they were never actually part of it. Their time together was brief and unusual. She shouldn't miss them, but she does. Every day. She thinks of them and knows that she is selfish for wanting them here. She knows that they too would be outcasts in this world. If they were here, she would have in them kindred souls. She might once again have a place...

The cold yanks her from her thoughts and she's happy to be rid of them. She needs to stop lingering in the darkest corners of her mind and soul. She fears that one day she will not return from them.

She feels the wind before she hears it roaring. It's got the keen edge of her Edged Carbine, and the bite of a Jabberwocky. She burrows deeper into her poncho and contemplates putting on a third pair of socks before deciding that it would be only be a waste of dry clothing. She calculates the distance across the Archylte Steppe and decides that she's going to need all the warm, dry clothes she can get.

* * *

Coming out of the dark caverns is a blinding experience. The storm, it seems, has passed and the sun is out in all its glory. The effect of the play of light over the white world is breathtaking.

And eye scorching.

Lightning squints at the intense brightness that is a combination of radiant and reflected light. The entire landscape glows like the sun. The world sparkles and glows brighter than the clearest diamond ever polished. The virgin landscape looks pure and holy. Looks can be deceiving, she knows.

She blinks and her viewpoint shifts. The world no longer looks like heavenly bodies or gemstones to her eyes.

It looks like crystal. She feels vaguely nauseated by the thought.

She remembers landing on Lake Bresha after defeating Anima. Everything looked like the clearest ice without the accompanying cold. It was undeniably beautiful, despite her complete lack of interest in admiring landscapes. The crystal was an end of life-all the life in the lake, all the life in her sister. All the life in herself. She ignored the sparkling wonder and moved onward then as she must do now. She moved onward and discovered her sister-perfect and eternal in her crystal casket.

She needs to stop thinking about the past. She can feel the panic and depression that nearly consumed her that day resurfacing. That was then, this is now.

That was crystal, and this is ice.

She tries to focus on the positives. Serah is alive and happy. The storm is over. She is moving on to start a new life. She lets the last of her unease disappear into the sunlight around her, and just lets herself be pleased at the turn in her luck. Maybe the rest of her journey will be pleasant...

She thinks about that for a moment.

_Optimism is for idiots._

She smacks herself in the head before her thoughts drift to the most offensive optimist she knows; before she can think of his smirking mouth and blue eyes...

 _Enough!_ She sets off at a steady pace, mindful of the blanket of snow and what dangers might lurk beneath it. She refuses to fall prey to optimism and all its ironic foibles.

Life has a tendency to bite you in the ass when you least expect it.

A gust of wind blows her hair, slices through her clothes straight to her bones, and sends pellets of ice and misted snow into her face and open eyes. She holds her arms up to shield herself from the icy debris. The wind worms its way under the cuffs of her sleeves, into her finger holes in her gloves to settle in the cup of her palms. She clenches her fists against the wet cold and realizes that she forgot to put her mittens over her gloves. She curses, sputters and digs for her mittens.

"Stupid." She yanks the mittens from the top of her pack, fumbles with them for a moment. Her fingers are already clumsy with cold, the skin contracting and nail beds turning a hideous shade of blue. She shakes out the mittens and slips them over her gloves, hopes that she does it quickly enough. She's made a critical error in allowing the ice into her gloves. The whole point of mittens over gloves is to conserve body heat and keep her hands warmer; try to keep her fingers from succumbing to frostbite. It's a temporary sacrifice of dexterity weighed against the long term benefits. The warmer she can stay, the less likely it is that her body will starve her appendages of blood flow and kill them off.

She stares at her now covered hands, clenching and unclenching fists, wiggling and shaking fingers. She needs her hands. She is a warrior. Loss of her fingers means losing her ability to use her gun. Losing her hands means losing her sword.

Losing her hands means losing the only thing she's good at; the only thing she's good for.

She is an idiot.

"Too careless Lightning," she scolds, proud that she keeps the tremble from her voice. "Too distracted." She slipped into dark memories and made a mistake or she saw the bright sun and the clear skies and got sloppy. Either or, take your pick. The result is the same: she got cocky in the absence of one enemy, and left herself vulnerable to the more dangerous and lethal one. The cold.

She feels the ice melting against her palms and wonders if she should turn back into the cavern to try and dry out and warm up. She looks up, sees that the sun is on its ascent. She has a full day of sunlight now. She needs to walk, find a safe place and set up a camp before nightfall. Sunset will drop the temperature from dangerous to lethal. She looks around at the Steppe, realizes how exposed she is to the winged predators that hunt the plateau.

"This may have been a big mistake," she tells the air. When the next wind blows, forcing her to touch her chin to her chest and close her eyes, she's pretty sure that she needs to drop the 'may have been' from her assessment. She considers calling for reinforcements now, certain that Sazh will come and get her.

Soon. She needs to get to safety before she calls.

When the wind dies down she scans again, sees the cliffs on the southern border of the Steppe and decides that they are her best bet. They'll provide a natural shield against the wind and cut off an entire angle of approach. Of course, it'll also cut off a line of retreat, but it's a chance she's willing to take to reduce her exposure by half.

The cliffs turn out to be farther away than they look, or maybe it's just slogging through knee deep snow that makes it seem that way. Either way, the sun is directly overhead by the time she reaches the cliffs and each step she takes eats up entirety of her shadow on the snow. Her feet are starting to burn in her boots again, but her hands still feel functional, if cold.

It turns out she was right and the cliff face does shield her from the majority of the wind. Lightning is pleased that her judgment and assessment skills are still sound. The stupidity of her overall decision to slog across the world in the middle of deep winter at the height of a huge storm had her wondering for a moment.

She pulls out the communicator and tries raising Sazh. There's no answer and she swears aloud; loud enough to hear back in Oerba. She presses buttons on the communicator, wondering if she broke it in her travels, or if she's just in an iffy spot for signals. The thing beeps and burbles in her hand, but offers no connection.

/Yelling doesn't fix it. It's called interference./

She shoves the unexpected memory of Fang aside, irritated that the past won't stop haunting her today. _Doesn't matter. Keep moving._

Thus resolved, Lightning walks in the shadows of the cliff until the world starts blushing with imminent sunset. The sky is ablaze with shades of red and gold and they reflect off the snowpack to create one of the most devastatingly beautiful sunsets Lightning has ever seen. She stares into the distance and forgets all her problems and worries, her fears and loneliness and just breathes.

The air is cold, but she doesn't feel it. The wind blows ice up her nose, giving her an instant brain freeze. She rubs at the pain but finds it little more than a nuisance. She basks in a false peace that can only be found in beauty. She closes her eyes against the purples of approaching darkness, knows that it is stupid to waste time standing when she should be setting up a camp for herself. She can't seem to care though.

Stupid is becoming a habit it seems. She blames Snow for being a bad influence.

She has memories of nights out on the Archylte Steppe sitting watch with Snow. Gran Pulse was silent under a blanket of stars, Cocoon shining like a spotlight overhead, and she and Snow sat in silence, listening to the chirps of strange insects and smelling the perfume of alien wildflowers. Sometimes they would talk about important things, sometimes meaningless ones. Sometimes there was an undercurrent of pain and fear between them, sometimes it was serenity and hope. But no matter what, there was a shared sense of purpose and calm between them and a deep appreciation for the beauty inherent in the untamed wilds of Gran Pulse.

It is a sad thing that some of her happiest memories are of the worst time of her life. It is a betrayal of everything that matters to her, that she hoards these secret memories like a pirate does with ill-gained treasure.

She hears something on the wind that pulls her from her thoughts. Something more than the calls of animals, or the sound of storming. Something off enough to make her forget her shame and her memories and her secret longings. She cocks her head and listens, curses the wind when it picks up again and drowns out the noise. The warrior in her takes over and she's happy to see her. She moves forward before she forms the thought, waits until the wind dies and stops.

Listens...

_Gunfire._

She opens her eyes and frowns. She would recognize the sounds of gunplay anywhere, but she can't figure out what it would be doing out on the Archylte Steppe in the shadow of Mah'Habara. No one lives out here. There are only a few outposts. She supposes someone could be hunting, or repelling an Amphisbaena attack. She hopes no one is stupid enough to try small arms fire on an Adamantoise or one of its cousins.

A loud boom startles her from her thoughts.

That one was heavy artillery: high caliber ammo or a grenade. No one would use that to hunt, and hurling hand grenades or Molotov cocktails at Amphisbaena is pointless and idiotic. All that would do is piss the winged nightmare off and bring its wrath down on the attacker's head and she shudders to think of the stampede it might cause from an Adamantoise. She finds it hard to believe that anyone who settled on the Steppe would be stupid enough to antagonize the largest animals. Adamantoises are herbivores and don't attack unless provoked, and all civilians in the outposts know how the easiest way to avoid Amphisbaena attacks is to stay indoors when they're spotted. The large predators are, as Fang once called them, 'winged death.' But they are also primarily hunters out for their own survival. They don't tear down buildings for prey; they move on and find their meal elsewhere.

Another explosion rattles the world, this one louder and closer. Now that the sky has darkened, Lightning can see the flickering glow indicative of structural fire blazing away on the horizon. Lightning takes a step towards the blaze when a third then fourth explosion rattle everything, one after the next. The snow falls again, hard. She watches it pour and sift down for a second before realization sinks in.

The snow isn't falling...it's _collapsing!_

She tries to get out of the way. Lightning is fast, but she'll never be faster than gravity, and a pile of snow that's been clinging onto the ledge above her shakes loose and lands on her with the force of an anvil, and buries her beneath a mountain of packed snow and ice.

* * *

The first thing she realizes is that she can't breathe. She's freezing, and wet, but her body dismisses those things as unimportant in comparison to the need for oxygen. She tries to gasp but it's like breathing with her head under a blanket. An icy blanket. She thrashes, but finds that she's pinned immobile. She tries to open her eyes but they feel frozen shut.

Memory smacks her with the weight of a sledgehammer.

She's buried alive.

Panic floods through her, followed hard by an adrenaline chaser and she moves every muscle at once, tries to burrow her way upwards, outwards, backwards. Any direction will do as long as she can free herself.

_Panic is always an enemy._

Fighting her body's instincts is harder than it should be for her. Her training feels further out of reach than ever right now. She can't focus on anything but the need for freedom and the struggle for survival. She thrashes again and doesn't stop until everything hurts and the world is slipping away from her like she's falling into a dream.

_Stop it. You're going to panic yourself right into death._

Obeying to her inner voice is harder than it's ever been, but she does it.

_Okay. What do you know?_

She knows that she's trapped.

/Buried!/

She knows that she's alive. So, if she's alive, then she's breathing. If she's breathing, then there must be an air pocket. She tells herself that she can survive if she keeps her wits. She reminds herself that panic accelerates respiration, and will use up the air and create more carbon dioxide. She'll die faster unless she calms down.

It all sounds so reasonable. She just can't seem to get her raging heart to buy her mind's rationalizations.

She starts again, testing one limb after the next to see if she can get any give and free one. She starts with her right foot, tries to work it to get it under her, to gain leverage so she can push up and hopefully surface. She feels like she's stuck in cement instead of ice, feels the panic threaten to boil over again. She gives up on that leg for the moment in hopes of maintaining control and tries the other foot. This one moves somewhat, shifts some of the packed snow from around her. The small bit of give elates her, raises her hopes for escape. She keeps moving her foot until her pelvis has some leeway. Then she rocks that and manages to un-stick her torso. She finally starts working her arms in the newly created space. She works them up, wiggles fingers back and forth to shift snow aside.

The whole process takes forever. She's lightheaded by the time her head breaks the surface of the snowpack. She's so cold that she can't even feel it anymore. She would consider that a blessing if it weren't for her very lethal circumstances. Sleep beckons to her to succumb but she fights, knows she needs to get out of this pile of snow or it will be her grave. She pulls and pushes until she's sweating into her soaked, frozen clothing. Or maybe that's ice melting and saturating her. Either way, it's only going to make matters worse. She wriggles free and lands face first on the snow covered ground.

Free.

She's free now but dying by degrees in the full dark of a Gran Pulse night. She's not even shivering though she knows by all rights she should be jittering like some sort of drug addict in withdrawal. It's not good. Not shivering is a very bad sign. She can't remember why right now, but she knows it all the same. She can feel the ice on her eyelashes, weighing them down, making sleep seem like an even more appealing idea. She closes her eyes.

_Maybe just a little while..._

Explosions and raucous laughter pierce the encroaching fog in her mind. She hears gunfire, the sounds of engines. Something is close to her and getting closer. She may be dying but she isn't dead yet. She needs to find out what is going on. The warrior in her demands it! There are warning bells going off inside her that have nothing to do with her decline and everything to do with an approaching threat.

She peels her eyes open and sees the bright glow on the horizon. It looks like the entire world is on fire. She blinks at it, sees a shadow resolving itself in stark relief to the brightness. It's massive. She blinks again, tries to wipe the ice from her lashes and ends up making the situation worse. She curses at herself, her stupidity and her own failing body.

 _There's no time for this Lightning._ She has this chance-this one chance-to understand what has happened. She has lived through enough cataclysmic moments to know one when approaches.

She stares at the growing shadow through frozen eyes until her brain can place it.

 _A Havoc Skytank!_ Her eyes widen. She hasn't seen one of these since the fall of Cocoon. Where the hell did it come from? Who are these people and where did they procure PSICOM weaponry? She spots a few other vehicles following. She hears laughter blended with screams in some horrible symphony. The sounds trail after and around the caravan like a procession and veil follow a bride.

She doesn't know what has happened but she does know it's bad. She's seen enough violence to note its signature on a person. She can smell the smoke and death on the air. Its stink clings to these men. She needs to see what has happened, but moreover, she needs to see where these men are heading. Her warrior instincts shout about the urgency of the knowledge.

She climbs up onto numb hands and knees and tumbles into the snow again. She swears, spits out a mouthful of snow and tries again. She manages to balance the next time and ignore the pain wending its way through her body. She's in big trouble. She ignores the knowledge, dismissing it as obvious and unhelpful, checks her gear then concentrates on crawling forward. Her whole body feels like a frozen sack of potatoes. She moves like she's been shackled to a dead Adamantoise and is now trying to haul the carcass behind her. Breathing is as laborious a task as moving. She pants hard, finds the icy air as painful and numbing in her lungs as ever. She resists the urge to cough, afraid it might send her face first into the snow again. If that happens, she knows she won't ever find the strength to climb up.

Her vision is blurred but she keeps the blob of the moving caravan in her sights. Once they've passed her position, she climbs onto her numb feet, feels needles of agony mix into the encompassing numbness in her body. She pushes the pain aside, pushes thoughts aside and sets her mind toward her task. She can still hear the screams from that caravan, though no longer with her ears. They rattle around in her brain, call up images of Purge and apocalypse, of helpless civilians crushed beneath military boots and machines. Memories of the weak falling before the irresistible might of the strong.

She's seen and caused enough death to know other death-bringers at first sight. Like attracts like, after all.

She follows the caravan on dead legs. Intel and infiltration was never her specialty, but she is a superior soldier, and her time as a l'Cie taught her the finer points of the art of stealth. She follows them northwest for what feels like hours until she catches sight of their base. She ducks behind a snow drift and peers around it for a look.

They've set up a camp in a natural break in the cliff face somewhere north of the entrance to the Mah'Habara caverns. They have a perimeter fence with barbed wire surrounding several bunkers and shoddy buildings, with one sturdy building in the rear that most likely houses their heavy artillery. She spots three gun turrets throughout the camp. They are positioned well but not ideally.

Lightning memorizes the layout and breaks it down in her mind. It's a good set up but not fantastic. It's better than she'd expect most civilians to do, but nowhere near what a properly trained command unit would accomplish.

Amateurs, then. Possibly some grunts with delusions of grandeur.

Screams catch her attention and pull her from her mental calculations. Lightning watches as three men drag a chain gang of prisoners out of the large garage. One man laughs when one falls and delivers a hard kick to the downed prisoner's stomach. She hears the other prisoners' protests and notes with growing rage that all the prisoners are women.

 _So that's it, eh?_ The fate of these prisoners flashes through her mind like a bad stop motion film. Everything inside her clenches. She grits her teeth, digs dead fingers into numb palms. She knows what these so called men are planning to do with their prisoners. She knows that the rest of these women's lives will be worse than any death she's ever contemplated.

_Unacceptable!_

She needs to do something. Her weapon is in her frozen hand before she thinks twice. She tenses, feels a wave of vertigo and fatigue knock her back onto her ass. She curses herself, curses the weather. Curses the snow, and then curses Snow just for good measure.

She can't do anything right now. She probably won't manage to take out any of the sadistic rapist bastards before she's mowed down by the gun turrets. She'll never make it over the barbed wire, and there's too much snow to worm under the fence. Going through is out of the question as she does not have the necessary tools.

If she actually wants to help these women (and kill these sorry excuses for humans) she's going to need help. She needs to mark her position and move her ass. She needs to get word to Sazh to get reinforcements.

She stands up and finds herself on her back staring at the stars.

Reinforcements and medical assistance. She flips over and drags herself through the snow. She can't afford to pass out near an enemy encampment. She can't let herself fall into enemy hands.

Can she? Pieces start clicking together in her head to form an idea...

She shakes her head. Maybe but not yet. Not in such a frozen, weakened condition. She's no good to anyone right now, least of all herself.

She crawls until the snow starts glowing blue with the approaching dawn. She moves until her joints won't bend anymore, until she can't feel her knees, fingers, wrists or nose anymore. She can't catch her breath.

She hears the roar of a motor and curses, crawls as fast as she can-which is admittedly not very fast. She can't believe they've caught her. Can't believe that a bunch of barely trained mongrels managed to detect her and follow her through the damn snow.

The vehicle stops moving and so does she. She's gone as far as she can. She's as good as dead anyway.

Her last thought as she faceplants into the snow is that the joke's on them.

* * *

TBC...


	7. Muttering Retreats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One ought to hold on to one's heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too."  
> -Friedrich Nietzsche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of disturbing content. Read at your own discretion.

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy XIII, nor do I make any profit from writing these ridiculous stories. I promise to put everything back where I found it once I'm done, though the characters may be a TAD bit worse for wear. After all...I do like to hurt them.  
  


* * *

"One ought to hold on to one's heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too."  
-Friedrich Nietzsche

-Muttering Retreats-

"Here!" A voice yells out. "I found her!"

The voice sounds distant-distant enough that she's half convinced that it's imaginary. She can barely feel the hands groping at her, maneuvering her, trying to muscle her out of the snow. She knows that if she's taken from this location, she will most likely be killed. She wants to fight but she can't open her eyes; she can't move at all. She resists the only way she can-by going limp and boneless.

Dead weight is harder to maneuver.

She hears a grunt, feels fingers bruise where they dig into freezing flesh and aching bone. The pain is indistinct-too much and too little at once. She is vaguely aware of being manhandled off the ground and out of the snow drift. She knows she should be concerned. Terrified even. She can barely muster apathy.

When unconsciousness asks her for a dance, she takes its hand and lets it lead her away, fully expecting it to be her last tango.

* * *

_She spins and twirls to an erratic rhythm. She's off-balance, much like she was just after blowing out her eardrum and developing extreme vertigo as a side effect. In fact, her whole body hurts, and the spinning is getting sickening and she just wants to stop. The room blurs by her and she's so very hot. She needs air, or water, or anything right now before she immolates or vomits and won't that just be the most attractive thing ever for the other occupants of the dance floor._

_And...why is she dancing anyway? She's never liked dancing._

_"Because I asked you to," says a velvet voice, and she shivers at the tingle of it across her skin and in her ears._

_The spinning slows, stilled by a large hand on the small of her back, and another in her hand. She's pulled forward, and pressed against a hard body. She relaxes into the twirling, listens to the rapid heartbeat in the chest beneath her cheek. The hand in hers disappears for a moment before it's in her hair, cradling her head. She should be fighting, but she's too dizzy. She just needs her bearings, and if she can just stay here for a moment she'll feel better. She tries to focus on the steady thud-thud beneath her cheek and all she hears is a rattling, clanging, sound that makes her head throb_

_"_ Hold her still!"

_and she is afraid and cold and shaking apart under the intensity of the feelings._

"Hold onto her!"

_She's confused and she reaches out again for Snow but he's gone. He's gone, and she's alone and so, so cold._

"This'll keep you calm."

She feels a small jab into her arm, more painful than it ought to be. Then she feels nothing at all.

* * *

She's drowning. Or perhaps, she drowned already.

There's a weight on her chest like someone dropped a house on her. Every inhalation makes her lungs burn.

Everything burns.

There's pain. Enough that she knows she's still alive; so much that she wishes she were dead. Parts of her body that had long since stopped feeling are waking up to sound off their anger at her flagrant abuse. Face, fingers, toes, feet, calves, ears. Each body part feels as if she's taken a blowtorch to it.

She tries to scream out the pain but her voice is a ragged thing, hissing and gasping, whistling through her bleeding, raw throat.

Her body shakes and sends off a wave of agony from the dead soles of her feet to the frozen roots of her hair. A hard bounce sends her careening off a ledge. _Where the hell did that come from?_ She falls a short distance, lands face down on something with enough force to knock the air from her lungs. She inhales. The air is warmer than she's felt in forever and her nose runs as if the contents of her sinuses have just been waiting to thaw in order to empty. She tastes blood and mucus, coughs, inhales again and smells rubber and antifreeze. The smells confound her. She tries to force her eyes open but they're too heavy. She tries to say something, but her tongue is swelled, or her lips are glued.

Or she's gagged.

She struggles, feels her heart kick up a fuss in her chest when she can't move. Someone pins her and she bucks and grits her teeth. Her jaw feels as if it might break. Her arms ache. There's a knot in her back the size of a fist that continues to punch her in the spine. She feels bruised and beaten, but she fights as hard as she can against her body. Against her restraints.

"Stop struggling!"

The command makes her fight harder. She feels hands on her body and she recoils and feels something whack her in the head hard enough to stun her. Her ears ring, the world spins in accelerating circles.

One.

Two.

She's out before she can count out the third.

* * *

_The large crack runs from floor to ceiling with smaller fractures splintering off across the whole wall. It resembles a spider web across the wall, and feels just as deadly._

_Something lurks beneath it._

_She's always known that this house was a death trap. She never wanted to move into it. Something about it reminds her of the past, and it isn't the nearby beach. It's the cheerful appearance versus the depressing reality. An empty house that doubles as a tomb; a pseudo-home that feels like a prison._

_It reminds her of her whole life._

_It reminds her of Barthandelus — all innocent appearances, smarmy smiles and insidious intent._

_She feels said sinister intent like an ill wind. She feels it in her gut, in her bones, behind her eyes. She feels it in prickled skin and a shiver that stalls at the base of her spine. It hovers over and around her, trapped behind the walls of the house; it possesses the structure, animates the inanimate. The enemy is around her, and it's seeking a way to reach her._

_The crack in the wall spreads as she watches it. She stares transfixed, watches fingers wiggle out, turn into insects crawling over the walls. She should run, she knows. She should be horrified that her house is possessed and falling apart; that there is some creature trying to wiggle through cracks in the facade so it can reach her._

_It will reach her; that should worry her._

_It doesn't. She doesn't care. She hates this house, and this life, but somehow, she can't seem to leave it. Every time she tries to go, she comes back to it._

_Like she's caught in an orbit. Or a web._

_Like she's chained to it._

_Chained to her. Chained to him..._

_Perhaps her dark stalker can offer an out._

_She stretches out on the miserable, uncomfortable couch and stares at the crack in the wall. It widens as she watches. She waits, eager to face the monster. Eager to confront the creature that's hiding inside._

_She longs to destroy it as it seeks to destroy her. She knows now that it is the cause of her problems, and that if she can just exorcise it..._

_...All her problems will go away._

_Her breath catches._

_Or does she have it backwards? Perhaps confrontation will lead **it** to exorcise **her**. She can feel its need like fingers around her throat; like breath ghosting over her lips. She knows that if she is here when it finally breaks through, she will disappear. She can feel the urgency, but it isn't enough to conquer the exhaustion or apathy. It isn't enough to let her break orbit._

_She feels like a stranger in this place, like a ghost haunting her own life._

_The crack gets bigger still and she watches as a piece of plaster falls. The walls peel back and away. She needs to get up and leave before everything crumbles around her. Her body feels leaden and won't respond to her will anymore. The couch sucks. Something is digging into her, constricting her. The couch is too small and claustrophobic. The material chafes where it rubs her skin. She wants to move, she really does but she's so tired that even thinking of getting up exhausts her. In fact, she thinks she'll sleep some..._

_'You need to get up, Light.'_

_Snow._

_She smiles._

_It should be strange that he's here, but it isn't. It feels right, like she's found a missing piece to the puzzle. She misses him. Misses him, misses the sound of his voice and the smell that is his. She misses the sparkle in his eyes as he teases her, the small crinkles that bracket his eyes as he smiles. She misses the quirk of his lip, and his steady presence at her back._

_She will never admit to any of this, but it doesn't mean she doesn't feel it._

_That he's here should bother her, but it doesn't. She feels lighter with him there. In this moment, she feels happy without the usual shame and anger that is balled and bundled up in all thoughts of Snow. She turns toward his voice but doesn't see him. Still, she knows he's there with her._

_Always with her..._

_'Don't want to. m'tired, Snow' Tired of fighting, tired of running. Tired of this life that doesn't fit. Tired and sore, and ready to rest._

_Tired of looking but not touching, of wanting and not having; tired of pretending. Tired of being without him, though she'll never admit that aloud. Admitting it to herself is pretty much impossible, after all._

_'I know,' and she feels the ghost of his fingers on her hip, on the back of her neck, tracing the scar on her back where he refused to stitch her. 'I know you're tired and I'd let you rest" His breath puffs against her neck and she shivers. "I really would. But you have to go. Something is coming.'_

_There is laughter in the cold; danger in the darkness._

_'No—'_

_'And the house is on fire, Lightning. You need to get out of the house.'_

_She opens her eyes though she doesn't remember closing them and fixates on the unfamiliar crack in the wall. She sits up and watches as the crack melts, then explodes into flames. She jumps up but there's flames everywhere now and she feels the heat on her skin. She moves and sees that her feet are burning. She needs to get out, but she needs to get_ him _out more. She can't find him. She panics before realizing that he was a dream. Or a nightmare. He's not here and never was. Her mind is playing tricks on her, tormenting her. She runs for the door down a corridor she can't remember, and watches the flames lick at her hips, catch on her clothes. She feels it but it doesn't hurt enough, so she stops moving and watches herself burn and she wonders why she was so afraid._

_She catches a glimpse of her stalker and the form is human and smirking; the fire roars and it sounds like cruel laughter. She hears screams and the walls are crumbling. She feels the smart edge of a blade rend, watches blood cascade over her hands and wonders why she's not dead..._

_Until she realizes that the only thing in the house-and in this life-that can hurt her, is her—_

* * *

She's not sure she's awake. She can still feel Snow's breath on her cheek, still hear his voice. She can still feel the burning from her feet to her face and her dream recedes.

She remembers the flames, still feels the burning and panics...

She knows she's not in that house. She remembers leaving the house, leaving the life that was killing her by inches and marching in a storm that was just killing her.

Perhaps Gran Pulse finally succeeded where the Cocoon fal'Cie failed.

Every part of her body burns and throbs in time with her erratic heartbeat. She's sure she feels her skin splitting. Her muscles pull and cramp like they're peeling back from her skeleton. She smells fire and smoke. She smells death.

She hears pops and crackling and she groans, hisses.

Fat snaps like fireworks when it burns...

She's a prisoner. She broke her captor's nose and her punishment is to be burnt alive.

She thinks that might be a bit of an overreaction.

"Help," she croaks. Her lips are sticking to her teeth and her throat feels like she's been gargling with ground glass.

"Easy there, Soldier." The rumbling voice is so welcome and impossible that she figures she must be still be languishing in fever dreams. It makes no sense. She opens her mouth to match the name to the voice but she can't. The answer is there, but remains teasingly beyond her reach. She sees a kind smile, warm, dark eyes and a flash of bright yellow fluttering around. The name is there, dancing on the tip of her tongue, loitering in her peripheral vision.

"Help." It's all she can think to say.

"We gotcha now. It's alright. You're going to be alright."

 _How?_ she wants to ask, but can't think past the pain.

She feels a hand on her forehead. She tries to open her eyes to figure out if she's hallucinating but her eyes are so heavy and glued shut. She moves, but her arms are pinned immobile.

_Not good!_

She panics, thrashes and every inch of skin feels like it's peeling off of her. She screams, and it's a rough, raw thing.

"Hey now, Soldier!" Hands cup her face. "Sorry about this but you'll hurt yourself."

She opens her mouth to answer when something warm and sticky flows through her and she exhales and slips away...

"It'll be over soon."

* * *

_'It'll be over soon...' and she doesn't know what that means. She looks around to figure it out but she's outside on the beach in Bodhum. She can smell the salt of the sea, but it's funny. Off._

_Everything feels wrong._

_The sand chafes and Phoenix is burning a little too hot today for her taste. She knows -knows-knows that she's getting roasted by the radiant and reflected rays, and she's not looking forward to the coming days of too hot skin against itchy sheets, ice cold showers against reddened skin, pervasive soreness, or the ugly peeling._

_'You couldn't be ugly if you tried.' She feels the breath gush into her burning ear, feels the moisture tickle her oversensitive skin. She smiles and stretches, slow and satisfied._

_'You are a liar,' she tells him and she shivers at the sensation of him chuckling against her. She opens her eyes but Phoenix is too bright and she can't see more than a silhouette anyway and she's afraid to look at him because then he'll be real. Or he won't be real. She wants to fold him into her arms, pull him to her, sigh into his neck, curl fingers into his hair, and taste the breath he exhales. She wants to memorize the texture of the skin at the small of his back, and drag the soles of her feet over the swell of his calves. She wants..._

_She feels a sudden sadness that nearly devours her because she can never hold him or know any of those things. She can never even think about it because entertaining the notion makes her the worst sort of traitor._

_She needs to get away from here. There are no words for how wrong this is, nor how right it feels. She needs to run..._

_'Don't be sad,' he whispers and she wonders when he became a mind reader._

_'I'm not,' he says in answer to her unspoken question, proving himself a liar once again. He takes her hand in his. 'I just know you. You're part of me.'_

_It's a ridiculous and traitorous declaration. She should break his face._

_'I know,' she says because she feels the same._

_It's not right, but it's still the truth._

_She doesn't know how it happened; how she went from loathing everything about him to finding him charming and wonderful and too impossible to live with, and more impossible to live without, but there it is all the same. It crept up on her like a mugger, and it spread through her body like a cancer before she realized it happened; and now it's too late._

_It started with grudging respect that morphed to charmed affection and before she knew what happened, she couldn't imagine a life where he didn't exist in some form. And she wants him to be happy; she always thought that was where it ended until she realized that her own happiness was tied to his with some sort of invisible chain, and rather than acting as a buoy, it more closely resembles a noose strangling the life from her._

_She can't hold him, and so she can't be near him._

_She can't do this anymore. Letting him flirt with her on the beach where he proposed to Serah is worse than anything she's ever done, and Lightning has done some terrible things. She tries to pull her fingers from his and her hand lights up with a familiar agony—_

"Hold still now"

_—before he releases it. She feels odd. The world wobbles and she feels ill. She looks around for him, feels his breath against her throat._

_'We can't...'_

_'You should get inside, Light.' She feels his fingers ghost against her skin and it hurts. The pain is a comfort, because she shouldn't take pleasure in his touch. Ever. 'There's a storm coming' he whispers against her lips. She licks her own in anticipation, lifts her head to close the distance between her mouth and his-_

_-and she's freezing and soaked, her hand throbs and her shoulder is a knot of pain. She is on Pulse, on the Archylte Steppe. She smells smoke and hears screams and can see in her mind's eye the caravan of death spreading like a disease across all of Gran Pulse. She needs to move, to save herself, to save the others. Part of her feels like she's lost something on this Steppe...someone that was with her-who should be with her still. Something terrible is happening and she isn't moving. She is withering and dying. She's a frozen observer in this new world and part of her wonders if perhaps she never woke from crystal stasis after all._

_The thought comforts her._

_Perhaps this whole Pulse nightmare is just some crystal dream. That would mean that she is not a traitor; that Snow is still in love with Serah and that she never fell in love with him at all. It would mean that she is still with Fang and Vanille. The thought makes her happy._

"You need to wake up now..."

 _The voice is familiar and surprising. She tries to follow it, to latch onto it and let it haul her out of this tar pit in her mind. She tries to open her eyes again_ (though she's sure she's looking at the white snow of the Archylte Steppe) and realizes that she's blindfolded. She grunts, licks dry, foul lips with a pasty tongue and says, "Wha-"

"Your eyes are bandaged, Light. Don't worry. You'll be okay. Just take your time." She shakes her head. She doesn't understand. Why are her eyes bandaged? Where is she? Who's speaking?

"Snow?" she asks, though the name doesn't feel right. The voice doesn't match and the scent is off. He was just here though. Wasn't he? She was talking to him on the beach...

No beach. There are no beaches here but the one she left behind her.

Nothing makes sense and she feels everything in her tense up in frustration.

"Yeah, Light," but the voice is all wrong and she's sure that she's lost her mind. The absence of sight is disorienting, and her whole mind feels muddled and out of step. She needs to get her bearings or sink back into unconsciousness. Either one will suffice. "We found you laying in the snow. You got some serious frostbite, but you're going to be okay."

Not Snow; she knew that. She knows that she should be relieved. She remembers leaving to get away from Snow and the life that trapped her. Having him here would be...bad.

She wishes that she felt relieved instead of broken.

Pain is making her weak. Weakness makes her sick.

She pushes away thoughts of Snow and focuses instead on the familiar fingers picking at what is apparently bandaging around her head.

"You had us really worried. I...I was afraid. I thought...when we saw you there, I thought we were too late."

It's Hope. The voice and fingers belong to Hope. She feels the cobwebs clearing, feels lucidity returning, but is still confused. There's no way Hope can be here either. Not Snow. Not Hope. She must be dreaming still and wishes there was some way to tell. She works her mouth to get moisture back into it and feels something wet and cool dab at her dry lips.

"I'd give you an ice chip but you were pretty frozen when we found you."

"Hope?" she whispers before she can stop herself. The whole thing is nonsensical.

"Yeah, Light. It's me." She feels his small hand brush hair back from her forehead. His fingers feel cool against her brow and she sighs. "You're going to be okay now."

It doesn't make any sense. She's sure it doesn't.

"How?" she rasps, as she flips through the pages of her mind in an effort to figure out what the hell is going on. Nothing about this makes any sense.

"Sazh and I found you."

That makes even less sense. What would Sazh be doing here? She wanted to call him. Did she call him? She can't remember speaking with him.

She remembers being in her home, in her bed. She remembers Snow showing up. It was dark and cold and he was warm and his mouth was scalding. She remembers the treacherous feel of his breath on her face, his heart hammering against her palm, and his hands and arms cradling her body. She remembers leaving, and taking his bandanna with her. She remembers the Tower; nearly plummeting to her death; speaking with him; telling him not to call her anymore. She remembers the snow-miles and miles of snow laid out like a quiet carpet over the whole world; covering Pulse like a shroud.

She remembers freezing and crawling.

She remembers flashes of Snow that she realizes must have been dreams: the heat of his breath, the solidity of his body, the curl of his tongue. Snow in her home and on the beach; holding her. Whispering secrets to her. Things that should be conjurations but aren't because of one traitorous moment; things that she will forget starting. Right. NOW.

She exhales.

She remembers the screams mixed with laughter.

She remembers the bloodlust surge up within her, and the memory materializes into reality so fast that she's seething, blood boiling.

There are murderers about and she let them get away. The thought makes her stomach churn; the memory makes her cheeks burn.

They are out there, reeking of death, painted in blood. They are the dregs of humanity and their lives were forfeit the moment she spied them. They are dead men walking-they just don't know it yet.

She needs to get up. She is a soldier; she swore to protect and she's failed utterly in that task. She tries moving but finds she can't. She feels hog-tied, blindfolded and staked out for scavengers; she gnashes her teeth against a spike of claustrophobia that kicks her heart into overdrive.

"Easy, Light." She feels the bindings loosening and she works to control her breathing. "Sazh bundled you up good to keep in the body heat and warm you faster. You were practically blue when we found you." Hope's voice shakes and Lightning does her best to get her spiraling emotions under control and not make things worse.

She hates it when Hope is scared. Or sad. She hates being the cause of more worry in his life. He has enough to deal with without heaping her self-made drama onto the pile.

"Swaddled," Sazh's voice comes from farther away. She hears footsteps approaching, feels his fingers worming between blankets and her skin. "It's what I used to have to do with Dajh when he was a baby to keep him warm."

He chuckles in a wonderfully soothing way. She relaxes, feels sleep tugging at her again.

"Not supposed to warm you up too fast," Sazh says as he slowly pulls at the blankets. "Something about cold blood rushing back from your limbs to your heart and killing you; or some such nonsense." She feels a blast of cold air on her feet and wiggles her toes, pleased to note that she can still feel them all. Part of her feared that she would wake to find pieces of her hacked off. "Though personally I think that particular brand of nonsense only applies to the rest of us mere mortals. You, my dear Soldier Girl, have more lives than a damn cat."

Lightning smiles at Sazh's running commentary, shifts and aches as the pressure around her body lessens. When Sazh finally pulls the last of her mummy tight blankets loose, Lightning shivers at the touch of cold air against her overheated skin. Sazh lifts her hand and she fights the urge to recoil. Every inch of her feels like it's covered in new skin. Too sensitive. Everything is just too much. She feels stripped of her armor and laid bare; she feels each nerve ending wake up at once to tingle, itch, burn then howl. She bites her lip to stifle the moan.

"Easy there, Soldier."

Easy? It's a ridiculous order. There's nothing easy about any of this and Sazh expecting **her** (of all people) to take it easy is absurd. Her entire body is a raw wound, and without the benefit of sight to mitigate it, her sense of touch is in total overdrive.

It's miserable. She's miserable.

Speaking of her sight: "Wanna tell me what's wrong with my eyes?" She is proud that she keeps the fear out of her voice.

Mostly.

"Swelling," Sazh answers unhelpfully. "Most likely from the extreme cold. To be honest, you look like you got punched in the face repeatedly by the Hero."

She flinches at the mention of Snow. She tries to cover for it by saying, "Yeah, well that never happened."

Although, she does sort of feel like it right now.

Sazh chuckles at her. "Yeah, Soldier. I know that." She feels blunt fingernails in her hair at the back, then the bandage around her head loosens and unwinds. "So do I, by the way. We're a matched set. You busted my nose, you know."

Now that he mentions it, she does have a vague recollection of heat butting someone. Sazh keeps his tone conversational. He's not angry but she feels guilty. Still, he should have known better than to try stripping her without her consent.

"Sorry."

"Nah," he says as he continues to unwrap bandages. "S'alright. I should've expected it from you. You never did do things the easy way." When the last of the bandaging is off, Lightning reaches up and pulls the thick pads off her eyes. "Hold up a second, Soldier. Kill the lights, Hope."

She hears movement and then hears the unmistakable sound of breath whistling against the glass of some type of hurricane lantern. "Alright then."

Opening her eyes hurts. The lids are so heavy they feel as if she's lifting barbells with her eyelashes. She blinks and blinks, feels the tears pour out of her eyes and race down her cheeks; the salt in her tears stings the skin of her face.

Her eyes feel as if she poured the entire contents of a beach into them, and her face feels as if she washed it with a cheese grater.

"Tilt your head back now." She obeys the command, feels Sazh's cool, sure fingers spreading her swollen eyelids, gets her first glimpse of him in the low light before the world disappears into a drop of liquid spreading across her cornea. She flinches away from the drops and blinks them from her eyes furiously. Sazh harrumphs at her and grumbles something about soldiers making lousy patients.

"Damn right we are," she agrees. She keeps blinking until her eyes focus. Her whole face feels bruised and tender, but she can see and she can move.

She feels more alive than she's felt in a year. How screwed up is that?

* * *

An hour later has her dressed in fresh clothes and checking her weapon. Her eyes are burning like she salted them just before staring into the sun, but she can see again. Most of her skin is red and raw, chafed and inflamed, but it is unbroken and healing. Her right hand is sporting a brand new bandage and Lightning traces the line of the tape around her pinkie and ring finger, smooths the tape where it spans the back of her hand—

—shivers at the memory of the fell of Snow's dry, chapped lips against the skin there, the heat of his breath, the humidity of his sigh, the smallest touch of tongue to broken bone—

—and she shakes her head and swears. She is not going there, and she is not upset that his bandaging is long gone.

She. Just. Isn't.

...Damn it.

She's not thinking about any of this anymore. Ever!

Instead she traces the break in her bone and finds that it is nowhere near as tender as it should be. The bruising is yellowing instead of darkening. The tingling is nearly gone. She's confused but pleasantly surprised to find that she didn't manage to damage her hand as badly as she thought.

"You did a real number on that hand, Soldier." Sazh startles her from her perusal of the break. She doesn't understand. Her hand feels almost normal. Sazh raises a brow at her. "It's a good thing that I still have some left over goodies from our l'Cie days."

She doesn't get it. "Huh?"

"Elixir," Sazh says, and withdraws a familiar bottle from his pocket, measures out some into a cup and hands it to her. "I've been saving it for a rainy day." She stares at the amber liquid in the glass, knows exactly how precious it is in this dangerous, undeveloped world and feels equal parts honored and shamed that Sazh was forced to waste it on her. "And let me tell you, yesterday it was pouring when we found you."

Lightning looks at him and smiles before gulping the shot of Elixir. It's thick and warm like heated honey, but far too bitter. She grimaces at the taste before the potent medicine numbs her pain from her mouth to her gullet, then spreads outwards towards her fingers and toes.

Elixir is awesome, even if it's awful.

"Metaphorically speaking, I mean," Sazh finishes and Lightning smiles at him.

"Thank you." The words are pale. Sazh and Hope risked themselves to come after her, saved her life, then used their potions to heal her up.

"Nah! Don't thank me." Sazh rubs the back of his neck and shuffles. Between his dark complexion and the low light, she can't tell if he's actually blushing, but she thinks she knows him well enough by now to decide that he is. She finds a warmth filling a hole in her chest that she's never recognized before and realizes that she's missed Sazh this past year. She's missed his grumping, his smart-ass comments, his quick wit and his kind, caring heart. She leans forward and places a kiss on his cheek, feels the heat coming off him and knows that her assumption was correct. Sazh leans away from her and stammers out, "Hey now! No need to give an old man a heart attack."

"You're not that old, Sazh," she says, and knows that if Fang were here, she'd be winking at Sazh and making suggestions just to make the poor man stammer.

Sometimes she misses Fang like an amputated limb.

"I'm old enough, Miss Soldier and don't you forget it!" Lightning laughs at Sazh and sits down to pull a pair of socks onto her bandaged feet. The elixir treatments seem to have healed up the worst of the damage on her feet, but she can still feel spots that hurt surrounding spots with no feeling. There's a good chance the dead zones on her feet will stay that way. Lightning sighs- _nothing to be done about it now_ -before tugging her fur boots on and lacing them up tightly over her leggings.

"You know, you never did say how you managed to find me." Lightning stands up and shifts inside her boots until they feel just right. She scowls at them and contemplates them until she realizes that Sazh didn't answer her question.

That's suspicious. Now she's really curious.

"Sazh?"

"Uh...well." Lightning starts feeling uncomfortable. "you know those communicators that I built for you all?"

"Yes?" It comes out as a question mostly because she's waiting for the punch line.

"Well," he drags it out into about four syllables as he says it, and gets all shifty again. "I may have added a locator beacon into each of them. Just in case."

Lightning raises her eyebrows as she contemplates Sazh's latest sneaky sneakiness. Ordinarily, the idea of being tagged like some sort of animal in a scientific study would piss her off, and she figures from Sazh's overall discomfort, he knows that. However, his little sneaky subterfuge just saved her ass in a very literal manner, and Lightning's never been one to complain about things just for the point of the issue...

Alright, so that's not really true at all. But she's not going to complain about _**this**_ one thing just for the principle of the matter. No point. It came in handy. Sazh is brilliant. End of story.

Doesn't mean she won't ask for a way to deactivate it. Or at least an on-off switch. She's not willing to be tagged and tracked again if she's trying to disappear.

"Good idea, Sazh." Sazh lets out a full body exhalation, like he's really been worried about her exploding on him and trying to kill him all this time.

No faith. It almost makes her sad.

Lightning scans the room for her gear, praying it survived. She needs to move. She's already been idle too long and she's terrified she's going to be too late to do anything to help those prisoners. "Where's my gear?"

"Hey now, Soldier. Where do you think you're going now?"

Sometimes she forgets how much she doesn't like explaining herself.

"Where's my weapon? I have to go." She storms out of the bedroom and her body kicks up a fuss at the whirlwind movements. She is in no shape to move.

She doesn't care.

She ignores the pain and nausea, makes it into what looks like a gutted dining area before she's bowled over by the stench of exploded gunpowder and death. "Wha—?"

"Would you hold up and tell me what's going through that fool head of yours?" Sazh yells.

"Where are we?" Lightning looks around at the half destroyed building. There are bullet holes scarring the walls, scorch marks from larger ordnances. Sazh looks disgusted, which is an interesting counterpoint to her horror.

"Another damn destroyed outpost." Sazh walks over to the debris strewn table and swipes a careful hand through it. "Another damn waste." He shakes his head. "Bastards."

None of that makes any sense.

"What's going on?" Lightning waits to the count of ten. "What do you mean 'another,' Sazh? I don't know anything about any of this. Why does none of this seem like a surprise to you?" Sazh rubs his forehead, sits down and puts his head into his hands as if it is just too heavy to hold up any longer. Like the weight of the memories is unbearable. Lightning's fingers itch for her weapon. She's afraid that she knows exactly what he's about to say. She can already feel the anger percolating, and Sazh hasn't spoken yet.

"This isn't the first time I've found an outpost that's been decimated like this," Sazh says. Sazh rubs his hair once and Lightning expects to see his chocobo come flying out of it before realizing that baby chocobo isn't a baby anymore. She's probably as big as Hope by now.

A year. A whole year has gone by and she feels as if she sleepwalked through the whole thing.

"...These were good people. Hard working people!" Sazh snaps and Lightning has no idea how much of his diatribe she's missed but feels terrible for disappearing into her own thoughts while Sazh has been talking about things that clearly upset him.

"How many?" Lightning asks. "How long has this been going on, Sazh?"

"Six months. Maybe seven." She feels her face heat, her throat close, and her muscles tense. She's so angry she could spit. She feels like she might fly apart from the storm brewing inside her. She exhales a sharp breath through her nose, hoping to gain some calm. Time just seems to be working in the opposite manner, twisting her even tighter, ramping her anger up higher.

She needs to calm down—

"Why didn't you call me?" She tries not to make it sound like the accusation that it is.

She fails.

"Excuse me, Soldier?" Sazh matches her anger in a way he's never done before. She should recognize the danger here but she's too amped up to do anything but grit her teeth. "I believe I did call you several times." Lightning feels her fists clench at the accusation.

She knows it's true. That only makes her angrier. There's a buzz behind her stinging eyes.

"You should have told me!" Lightning shouts, knowing she's wrong. Knowing she's out of line. She wasn't willing to listen. She disappeared into her head and ignored everything. This is not Sazh's fault but she can't seem to care right now in the face of her own failure. Someone needs to be blamed, and she'll settle for Sazh.

"Why? What good would that have done?" It's like a slap in the face and Lightning feels the flush of rage and shame spread over her face, down her neck to cover her whole body. She wants to tear Sazh's head off for making this her fault.

 _It is her fault._ She knows it's her fault.

"I asked you to come. I told you we needed your help. You just decided to curl into a ball and disappear! Go live on some beach somewhere and leave the us to deal with all this mess on our own."

"That's not..." _even close._ But not really wrong either.

"Don't you deny it! You didn't want to look at Cocoon." Sazh yells and she's not sure if she's angry, affronted, or just outright shocked that Sazh would speak to her in this manner. "You couldn't stand to look at Vanille or Fang so you just ran away."

Angry. Yep. Anger wins by a country mile...

"Shut up!"

"Poor little Soldier-girl. Like you're the only one who lost something," Sazh snipes.

"What the _hell_!" Hope yells from the doorway. "Are you both crazy? You really think blaming each other is going to make you feel better? Why not just pull your weapons and get it over with!" Lightning sees her shock mirrored on Sazh's face. Hope is livid. And Hope is right. "You want to do something useful, why don't you grab a shovel and help me bury the bodies that were left outside to rot!"

Hope turns around, storms out of the room and slams the door behind him. The force of the slam rattles the frame and shakes the door loose. It falls with a dry crack that sends a blast of cold air into the room.

Lightning feels her anger deflate at the mention of bodies. This is a home she's standing in. The people who lived here are dead. They were murdered for their food, or their supplies, or just for sport. These people were murdered and she's standing in their home blaming her friend for letting it happen.

She is a horrible person.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"No, Soldier. Don't apologize to me. I don't even know what the hell I was yelling about."

"I do. This... All of this." Lightning looks around at the destruction, looks outside at the still smoldering ruins. "There's only so much senseless death a person can stand looking at before they finally crack."

They need someone to blame; they need an enemy to fight.

Sazh stands next to her and looks outside. "I don't know what's going on anymore. I thought we'd seen the worst last year."

"Yeah. Me too."

"I should have told you what was going on." She shakes her head. "I wanted to believe that we could handle it ourselves. And I felt bad about ruining your chances at building a new life."

Lightning feels the urges to laugh and cry vie for top position. If Sazh only knew...

"And then when we found you and I thought you were going to die too, on top of everything." Sazh shakes his head. "We've lost enough. We can't lose you too."

Lightning looks at Sazh, sees the bruises under his eyes from his busted nose and smiles at him. "Well, you saved my ass."

"It was the kid, you know." Sazh nods towards Hope outside pacing in the snow. "He's the one that insisted we come looking for you."

She's not surprised. Not really. Hope followed her when she was hurtling full speed ahead on a suicide mission and he was just a scared, green kid looking for an outlet for his anger. He followed her through the Vile Peaks, through The Gapra Whitewoods and into Palumpolum. He'd have followed her straight into the heart of the Sanctum and died beside her. That he would come after her in a blizzard is not...

Wait. How the hell did he know?

Did she say more than she intended in her message? It's not impossible; she was half dead at that point-frozen, hypothermic, frostbitten, exhausted and bruised from her shoulder to her hip. To say she was delirious would be an understatement.

She walks to the door and lifts it into the frame again, spies Hope through a crack in the door hunched over and vomiting into the snow outside. She drops the door and walks outside, determined to get to him. He deserves better from her.

Things are a mess and she needs to fix them. Now.

Catching sight of the bodies derails her thoughts.

There are seven bodies lined up, each one embedded in a pool of frozen blood, faces blue, captured forever in the final throes of agony, blind, milky, iced over eyes staring at the unforgiving sky. She wants to close their eyes but knows it's impossible.

The bastards gut shot them. Dragging people from their homes in the dead of night and murdering them wasn't evil or sadistic enough for these maniacs. No; they decided to usher these people into the afterlife in the most painful, brutal, and excruciatingly protracted manner imaginable. These people were still alive when she tracked that caravan of death through the snow to their murderers' compound. These people were probably still alive when Sazh and Hope pulled her out of her own icy grave. The snow and freezing temperatures might have even slowed the bleeding as hypothermia set in. Lightning realizes that if weren't for hypothermia and exposure killing them first, these people might very well have still been howling when Sazh and Hope pulled her half frozen body into the one remaining structure.

She swallows down her own bile and hopes it doesn't come frothing out of her mouth. She vows that she will put these rabid animals out of everyone's misery.

Hope's retching draws her from her own horror, and she kneels beside him in the snow and places a hand on his back.

"I'm sorry, Hope." Hope's body shudders and she slides a hand under his arms to lift him up and into her arms. He slobbers a sob onto her neck and she repeats, "I'm sorry."

He shouldn't be here staring into eyes of dead men, trying to figure out how to bury bodies in the frozen ground. He should be home with his father. He shouldn't have to see anymore of this sort of horror. None of them should have to deal with this anymore. They've all seen enough horror and death to last ten lifetimes and it's left its mark on all of them. She hoped that Hope as the youngest might be able to heal from the scars and have some semblance of a normal life again.

She didn't realize that she was an idealistic moron. She thought that was Snow's domain. Apparently the Hero rubbed off on her.

...And she's just never going to think about that again. Ever.

Hope shakes against her, shudders, pulls himself together and away. She feels proud and sad at once. Hope is such an old child now. He's seen things men five times his age shouldn't see and he still tries to put on a brave face for the world. She wants to weep. Instead she smiles as he pulls away from her and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Sorry..."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Hope."

"I should be able to handle this..." he gestures at the dead, blue bodies, looks at them and goes a whiter shade of pale. She shakes her head at him, and turns his face away from the dead bodies.

"No one should have to handle this Hope. These men..."

Men. Only men. No women or children...

"I have to save them," she whispers and stands up. She forgets about Hope and Sazh, looks around at the pure white, unmarked landscape. She's wasting time here. These men are dead. Their wives and children...they might still be alive.

This is what she lives for; it's what she was born to do. She's a weapon forged by necessity and honed by a thirst for vengeance. She's deadly and so very ready to unleash a year's /lifetime's/ worth of pent up anger and frustration on some deserving targets.

She's always believed a target's a target, and perhaps that's true. But some targets are better than others.

"I have to go."

"What?" Hope asks, confused and maybe even a bit scared.

"You can't save them, Soldier. They're long gone." Sazh is solemn. Horrified.

Disgusted.

She can relate.

"No. I know that." These people are long past her help. "The women. Sazh, I know where they are."

Sazh's whole face changes in an alarming way. "What are you talking about?"

"I was out on the Steppe and I heard the attack. I didn't know what was happening, but I knew it was bad." Sazh has a strange light in his eyes. If Lightning didn't know better, she'd call it blood lust. She considers his posture, his clenched fists...

Perhaps she doesn't know better after all. Sazh looks positively murderous; he's angrier than she can remember ever seeing him and that includes during their suicide run to the Pulse Vestige and the aftermath battles which nearly cost him his son. It worries and impresses her; but if Sazh is out for blood, she certainly can't blame him.

"I heard the explosions, and I saw the fire on the horizon. I didn't realize the extent of what I was seeing, but I know bad things when they're happening." They all do. Survival instincts can't be forgotten. "So I followed them." She stares at the bodies, faces a hideous shade of blue, eyes staring skyward.

"You—" Sazh starts but she cuts him off.

"Through the snow and the dark. I followed them." She nods to herself as she says, "I know where their base camp is."

"What?" Sazh asks, but it isn't really a question. It sounds...hopeful. "Where?"

"We don't have time for explanations." Lightning charges past him. There's an insane plan half-forming in her mind. The barbarism evident in the executions of these people raises the urgency level. Talking is wasting time that the prisoners don't have. Women that she abandoned to unimaginable horrors. "I left those prisoners there," _those crying, screaming women,_ "and I'm going to get them out."


	8. Dying With A Dying Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."  
> -Edmund Burke

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."  
-Edmund Burke

"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it."  
-Helen Keller

-Dying With a Dying Fall-

"So what's the plan, Soldier?" Sazh asks as he follows her into the broken house. She spies her pack, swipes it and begins picking through it. "You're just going to run off into the snow and face a horde of murderers by yourself?"

Lightning pauses in her perusal and sighs. That is actually pretty close to the plan. Except : "No. I was figuring that I'd steal your ride, actually."

Sazh barks out a humorless laugh. "Lone wolf again, huh?"

As if she knows any other way. She considers answering him before deciding that she's not up for a fight with Sazh. Lightning lifts Snow's bandanna from the pack, stares at it a moment and feels...relieved. She strokes the material once before gritting her teeth and shoving the bandanna deep into her bag.

She's ridiculous.

"Tell me something, Soldier. Didn't you learn anything last year at all?"

Lightning huffs out an irritated breath.

"I learned plenty." She pulls the drawstrings on her bag tight with a hard snap of her wrist. "I learned that everything I thought I knew...everything for my whole life – was a lie. I learned that I didn't _know_ anything. That's what I learned."

That revelation still burns more than she'll admit.

"I learned that the majority of casualties in war are unarmed noncombatants." All those people killed in the Purge. The citizens of Palumpolum. The entire population of Gran Pulse. If Barthandelus had had his way, it would have been all of humanity as well. Instead, it was only two of her friends. It seems a small price – sacrificing Fang and Vanille for the world.

It seems a small price...but it isn't.

She's tired of sacrifices.

Lightning shifts her pack and shoulders it.

"I learned that if I wanted to change things, then I had _do_ something. Meaning well just..." she sighs, "doesn't mean a thing. Not really." _The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and so on and so forth._ She gives Sazh her most level gaze. "And I learned that I'm tired of watching people – _innocent people_ – die."

Images of Fang and Vanille flash through her mind as she speaks the word 'innocent.'

"Yeah. Well, I'm tired of watching people die too," Sazh says, rubbing his head. "And that includes you."

"I'm not going to die," Lightning states.

"Oh, so you're immortal now?" She rolls her eyes and decides that arguing is a waste of time. He's worried, and she cares too much about him to belittle him for that. Sazh seems to realize the futility of sarcasm and takes a different approach.

"Just..." Sazh's whole body radiates exhaustion and Lightning finds her determination eroding. "Let's just talk about this for a minute, alright? Figure out a plan."

"We don't have time." She's not just saying that to avoid talking (though that's part of her motivation too). Every minute is precious; there is a countdown going on and she slept through a day of it.

"Look..." Sazh says, trying to project 'reasonable' though she can tell he feels anything but. "I've been stockpiling for this occasion, Soldier. I make one call and we can wipe out those bastards. All I need is the location."

She can see the frown lines around Sazh's mouth and between his eyes. She notes the tremors rumbling beneath his skin like earthquakes. It's like there's something inside him twitching to get out.

That 'something' is too familiar: monsters beneath the skin, the desire to kill raging through him unchecked. One misstep and Sazh will disappear into his bitter hatred.

She doesn't want Sazh to become a murderer. Sazh is too good to be like her.

Besides, Fang would kick Lightning's ass for allowing Sazh to destroy himself. They'd all come too close to being monsters last year to succumb to their baser instincts now.

"You're talking about murder."

"I'm talking about survival," Sazh counters. 'This is just one outpost, Soldier. _One!_ These people were friends. I helped them set up this outpost. Do you understand?" There's a vein bulging in Sazh's forehead. "They were good people, and we promised to protect them. Now look – just _look_ – at what these monsters have done!"

There's so much outrage in Sazh, she wonders if it will consume him right now. She wishes that Vanille were here to talk Sazh down. She always had such a knack with him. She wishes that Snow were here to irritate Sazh out of his rage.

She wishes Snow were here for too many reasons to count.

She stalls the train of thought. She has no time to think about Snow, and no time to long for his aid. She needs to stop thinking about him forever. He's where he belongs...

And dealing with this mess is her responsibility.

"That's why you shouldn't do this, Sazh. You're too close to it." Lightning knows how destructive the warpath to vengeance can be. After she lost Serah to crystal stasis, she blazed a trail of destruction across Cocoon on a suicide mission to Eden. She didn't care who or what her crusade consumed. It was only a moment of clarity, wherein she saw her own rage reflected back from Hope's face, that showed her exactly how off the rails she'd gone. Viewing her own self-destruction in the mirror of Hope's shadowed eyes snapped her out of her downward spiral faster than a bucket of ice water. Her rage dissipated, her priorities changed. That moment changed her life – _saved_ her life.

_Hope_ saved her life.

She knows that what she feels now is worlds away from what she felt last year. As angry as she is right now, it's anger over senseless murder. It's retribution, but not vengeance. It's justice and salvation that she longs to deliver.

She has no personal stake in this mission. It's how she knows she'll succeed.

"Damn right, I'm close to it," Sazh barks. "I've had to bury good people. Families, Soldier! I had to bury children. I had to pick pieces of them off the floor, and try not to gag on the stench. This isn't about me, it's about them. Don't dismiss this out of hand. I think I understand where you're coming from here." She raises an eyebrow at him and he deflates a bit. "I'm not willing to let more good people die just to avoid doing something...distasteful."

Right. This approach isn't working. She needs to take a different tack.

"What about the hostages, Sazh?" Lightning asks. "Have you thought about what launching a full scale attack will do to them?"

Sazh nods. "I have. But they're probably already dead, Soldier."

That thought had occurred to her. "And if they're not?"

"Then they're casualties of war." He flinches as he says it. She cringes at the idea that he's this far gone.

"I'm done with casualties of war, Sazh. I'm done with acceptable losses." Lightning drops her bag and crosses her arms. "It's how I justified...everything last year. We killed so many people, and whether we meant to, or we wanted to, it really doesn't change the facts anymore." _Not that it ever did._

Lightning reaches into her bag and pulls out the liquor that Fang gave her. Old Pulsian alcohol to go with old wounds. She takes a deep swallow and passes the bottle to Sazh. He looks stricken, but takes a drink.

"I did what I had to do last year, and I justified the deaths with thoughts of the 'greater good.' And maybe it was." She caps the bottle and puts it back into her bag. "But I'm done sacrificing people for the greater good. Wiping these men out in one fell swoop is definitely the smarter tactic here. I agree with you. Delaying at all risks letting them escape and regroup." Sazh leans against a wall pockmarked by gunfire, absorbs each word like a physical blow.

"I know all of these things," she continues. "I've considered them, and I've decided that I don't care. I'm not willing to sacrifice the few to save the many anymore. I'm done with compromising my humanity." It's too close to what the fal'Cie wanted-a sacrifice for the greater good. An end to suffering bought with the blood of the innocent. "I'm going to save these women. If they're still alive."

"And if they're not?" Sazh asks. He waits a beat and continues: "What about the next women, Soldier? What do we say to them if we let these animals get away?"

He's right, of course. Any future victims' blood will be on her hands; their deaths will be on her head.

She's willing to take the risk. There's no other choice for her anymore, and she doubts he'll be able to live with the guilt of killing hostages for any sort of greater good. It sounds a hell of a lot easier than it is. It should be an agonizing decision and he's made it too readily.

"I can't deal in theories or hypotheticals anymore, Sazh." Lightning lifts her bag again. "I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."

Sazh nods; he looks almost relieved by her decision and she's certain she's made the right one. "So what's the plan then?"

Lightning gives him her most dangerous grin. "I'm going in."

"What?" Hope yells from the doorway, startling both Lightning and Sazh. "You're not serious. You can't...I mean—"

Lightning puts her hands on Hope's shoulders and waits for him to stop sputtering. He's gone past trembling into full on shaking. She keeps her voice calm and level. "I have to, Hope. There's no other way."

"You don't know that! We haven't even had time to think of another way."

"These women don't have time for brainstorming." She considers her next words, knowing that they might backfire on her. "Every minute they're there is hell, Hope."

"And you're just going to walk in and..." he pales. "And...do you know what they're going to do to you?"

Sure she does. Or, at least, she knows what they'll _try_ to do. Does he?

Lightning glances at Sazh for help but he shakes his head and turns away. He won't help her, but he won't to let Hope see the doubt and fear in his eyes either. They've already had this conversation, after all. Sazh blustered and cursed at her until he was stammering and red-faced. He said everything and nothing, unwilling to bring himself to talk about the torture that might befall her if her plan were to backfire.

She's not going to let Hope put words to his fears either.

"Look, Hope—"

"No. What is this about? You still looking to get yourself killed?" Hope's face is scarlet with rage. She should have expected him to throw her suicide run from last year in her face, but he catches her off guard with the accusation. She never really believed that he understood the nature of her mission then. He was so caught up in his own grief and swept up in the tornado of her rage that she really didn't think he noticed. He was just looking for someone as angry and hurt as he, someone who understood the impotence of his rage and the uselessness of his loss. Apparently, some distance, time and a bit of clarity offered him insight into Lightning's motivations.

_Damn it._

Tears pool in his eyes before one does a slow crawl down his face. "I thought..."

"Hope...this isn't like...that." Her explanation is lame; she knows it is. He snorts at her and shakes his head. "It's not! These people need help, Hope. That is all this mission is about."

"I don't believe you," he huffs and storms out of the house.

She nods at the numbing hurt spreading through her. She's not surprised – not by his lack of faith, nor at her own pain in the face of it – but she's never been more certain of anything than she is in this moment. This is the correct course of action for her. She's the perfect person for this job.

She's the _only_ person for this job.

She turns toward Sazh, finds him facing the corner staring at his feet. "So, you know the plan. You give me one day, then you launch the assault."

Sazh nods and half-turns toward her. "You sure..."

"If I'm not out in a day, I'm not getting out. And if this doesn't work..." _I don't want to be left there anyway_ , she doesn't say.

She unbuckles her holster and places it on the ruined table. She feels more naked without her weapon than without clothing, but going in strapped defeats her objective. "I want Hope to have this if..."

"Please..." Sazh whispers and puts his hand over his face. He nods. "I'll take care of it."

"I know you will." She pulls out the knife from her birthday. Serah was so proud of this blade. So proud that she found Lightning the perfect birthday gift. Lightning smiles, thinking about her satisfaction at opening that gift. Lightning cherishes this blade; not for its beauty or utility – it has both in spades – but because of what it represents. It was a token of Serah's love, a symbol of her understanding of who Lightning was on a fundamental level.

It is also a reminder of the last day of her old life. That revelation might seem strange to other people, but that birthday marked the end of fal'Cie control over her. Lightning is still ashamed when she reflects on her behavior that day. She made Serah cry; she drove her from the house. That singular act set off a chain of events that changed the entire world. Lightning regrets her actions that day, but she doesn't regret the resolution that came because of those acts. She turned her back on the Sanctum – on her duty – and ran full tilt towards those who would destroy her sister.

This blade is a symbol of Lightning's decision to abandon duty for family, to abandon old teachings for new ideas. It is a symbol of the strength her sister gave to her; the resolve to do what was right, rather than what was easy.

It is a symbol of her sister's love, and Lightning never thought she would part with it.

Leaving it behind is harder than leaving her weapon, but the idea of it falling into enemy hands makes the decision simple. She won't have this beautiful blade used to butcher innocent people. She won't allow anyone to tarnish her knife, or desecrate what it represents.

She swallows, places the knife on the table and says, "This goes back to Serah, please."

Sazh looks pained as he nods at her request.

She pulls out the liquor and takes a whiff. Her eyes water ( _this is the good stuff_ , Fang's voice whispers) and she puts it on the table.

"This is yours," she tells Sazh. "She'd want you to have it."

Sazh looks ill. Lightning wishes this were easier, but some things need to be done, and sometimes doing those things is damn difficult.

Impossible, even.

She stares at her possessions lined up on the table. Pretty little things, all in a row. She considers that she's left nothing for Snow; decides that it's fitting. They've given each other all she'll ever allow–

_/his breath on her face, his fingers on her skin/_

–and shared more than they had any right to. She reaches into her pack, finds the bandanna and considers leaving it behind. She looks at the now coveted blond hairs in the knot, rubs the material between her fingers, lets her fingers ghost over the flaxen hair before she stuffs the bandanna into her pocket.

She is leaving behind some of her most cherished possessions. She refuses to part with this small indulgence.

It may not be right that she gets to have this token while he gets nothing, but then no one has ever accused her of an overabundance of fairness.

"Alright then." The statement is unnecessary, but she feels like someone needs a lifeline here. "I'm off."

"Hold up a second there, Soldier," Sazh grabs her arm.

"Sazh—" She really wanted to avoid a big scene here. She needs all her strength for the coming battle.

"I'm changing that bandage on your hand." She narrows her eyes at him, watches him pull something out of his pocket and feels a real smile spread across her face.

"Is that—?"

"Uh-huh." Sazh says as he pulls out the medkit and holds out a hand expectantly. Snow did the same thing when she first broke her hand on his face. She shoves aside the memory of his eyes and the bruises she caused.

She wishes Snow would stop haunting her.

She sits opposite Sazh and lets him start peeling off the bandages.

"You really are a genius, you know that, Sazh?" Sazh smiles as he takes out gauze, tape and splints and lays them out on the table.

"Yeah, well someone around here ought to use their damn head."

* * *

The new bandage is heavier and bulkier than the old ones, but Lightning doesn't mind at all. Her fingers are immobilized, pinkie and ring finger taped together, thick padding wadded and stiff between them. The splint around them, cupping side of her hand is cumbersome, but she appreciates any extra protection to support the break.

She has a feeling she's going to need to hit people – a lot of people – and destroying her hand in the process is not an appealing prospect. She pulls on her poncho and her mittens. She shoulders her pack and walks over to Sazh.

He refuses to look at her.

"I'll see you in twenty-four hours."

"Right." The nod comes a second after the word, as if he forgot that the gesture and word are a matched set. "Sure."

"Do me a favor, Sazh." He meets her eyes.

"Anything."

"Try not to look like I'm going off to my execution." She raises an eyebrow at him, curls her lip in what she hopes is a wry look. When he snorts and looks away she figures she came close enough to her mark. She finds his fear touching and upsetting at once. She has no desire to scare him. She has no doubt that she will succeed in this mission. Failure is not an option.

"Have a little faith," she tells him.

"I've got tons of faith, Soldier. I just..." he huffs, takes a deep breath and meets her eyes. "You're right. If anyone can pull this insanity off, it's you." He holds out a hand to shake. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She shakes his hand, then leans in and gives him a hard hug. He sighs against her, claps her hard on her back.

"Take care of everyone," she whispers. He's always taken care of them. Since the minute she met him, he's been taking care of them. He's a caretaker to his very core. That is why she could never allow him to become a killer.

Killing is her domain.

"I got 'em. You just take care of _you_. You hear me, Soldier?"

She pulls back, turns and leaves the house. She looks around for Hope, but doesn't see him. The idea of leaving with things-wrong between them-makes her sad. She looks around, looks toward the darkening sky and sighs. She needs to leave. The cliffs along the western border of the Steppe are going to take two hours by Snow Kat. She'll have to ditch it long before that and walk the rest of the way, and she needs to get there while it's still dark.

Her plan depends on it.

She trudges through shin deep snow to the Snow Kat and opens the door.

"So that's it? You just leave?"

She huffs out a breath, tosses her bag into the passenger seat and turns to look at Hope.

"It's going to be fine, Hope."

"I'm never going to understand why you're doing this. There has to be another way."

She rubs her brow, feels the aggravation building and shoves it aside as hard as possible. They don't have time to waste on fighting.

"There might be, but I can't think of it."

"Well, you didn't give me a chance." He throws his hands up and yells, "No one has _ever_ given me a chance."

"Hope..."

"No! My mother didn't say a word before taking that gun. She just did it...and died."

"It's not the same, Hope."

"Isn't it?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "No one told me about what was happening. About all the killings. And now you're going to go off and try and break into the camp..." he pauses, and gives her a look that fills her with dread. "I can come with you!"

"No!"

"I can help!" Hope exclaims. "I can. I'm not useless, Light."

"Wait—"

"If you don't take me with you, I'll just follow you. Just like last year. You know I will, Light. So you have to take me with you."

She grabs him by both arms and shakes him. Hard. She gives her anger its head and lets it run free. "Enough! You are not coming with me!

"But—"

"Absolutely not!" She shakes him hard enough to shut him up. "You listen to me. You are not coming with me because they will kill you!"

"Wha—"

"They'll kill you, Hope. Just like they did to all the men in this camp. Do you understand?"

"Maybe not."

"No. You're right. Maybe not." She grabs him by his soft baby-face, steels herself and says, "Maybe they'll see just how very _pretty_ you are, and you'll get to see exactly what monsters like to do with pretty young boys. Sound like fun?"

His eyes are huge and wet. He tries to shake his head in the negative but she holds him fast. She needs to convey how serious she is right now. The idea of him following her into that death camp is terrifying. He might die. He might _see_. He'll never be the same if he goes there, and that's supposing he makes it out at all.

"You. Are not. Coming with me." She punctuates each word with a tighter grip on his chin. "If you come, we'll both die." He opens his mouth but she squeezes him until he winces. "I can't worry about you too. I need to be focused in there Hope. If you're in there with me, I won't be able to concentrate." She eases her grip on his face, wipes the tears pouring down his face away. "I need you to live."

"I need you to live," he echoes.

"I will." He shakes his head and closes his eyes. "Once, you believed I could do anything."

"I was stupid!"

She laughs. "You were young," she corrects. She lets go of Hope's face and starts fixing his coat. She needs something to do with her hands to still the trembling. "I need you to believe that I can do this."

"Do you?" Hope asks. She furrows her brow at him. "Do you believe you can do it?"

Does she? Does she really think that she can pull off this crazy-ass plan of hers? Or is this just another way for her to punish herself? She's honest enough with herself to recognize the possibility, but this doesn't feel like her usual brand of fatalistic masochism. This feels like self-assurance.

This feels _right_ **.**

"I do," she declares and she can see him considering her. He must see the truth in her eyes, because he subsides and nods.

"You should call your sister."

It's like a gut punch. She staggers at the thought of her sister. She shudders at the idea of speaking to her.

"She's worried about you."

"Hope—"

"No. Even if you're right and everything is fine, you should still call her. I mean...just in case."

_Damn it!_

What the hell is she going to say to Serah? All the reasons that she left her home burst free from their prison in her mind to run amok through her thoughts with big, sloppy boots. She doesn't want to know if Snow decided to be a jackass and blow up their lives; as long as she remains out of touch, she can pretend that she isn't a home-wrecker. As long as she maintains radio silence, life back home is status quo.

As long as she doesn't know the truth, she can continue telling herself lies.

She feels a pain in her heart match the one in her head.

Hope is right. She cannot go off on such a dangerous mission without speaking to her sister. Neither can she tell her sister about said mission.

She wants to smack Hope in the head for giving her something else to worry about when she should be preparing herself for her infiltration and rescue.

She swears, quiet and colorful, before meeting Hope's eyes.

"Give me your communicator," she orders.

"Where's yours?" She gives him a look that she hopes conveys her full-body irritation at his interference in her life. From the immediate fumbling and paling, she figures she can call that one a win. Hope holds the communicator out to her and says, "Here you go."

"Yeah, thanks," she snarls and seeks some distance and privacy. She mumbles under her breath about nosy kids being more trouble than they're worth and hopes that he hears her.

She dials the code for Serah's communicator and feels her stomach flutter when she hears the tone indicating that the other end is ringing. She rubs her eyes, listens to the second ring and starts to feel calmer. She can do a message. She can tell her sister she loves her, tell her that she's doing what's right and what makes her happy, all without having to hear her sister's fear or anger. She'll get to say goodbye without having to listen to recriminations. It's a great idea! She's got the message all drafted up in her head when the ringing cuts off.

"Hello?"

_Crap._ "It's me."

"Claire!" The relief in her sister's voice cuts right through her. "You're alright!"

"Yeah, Serah. I'm alright."

"Oh, I'm so...I'm so happy." Serah doesn't sound happy at all. She sounds like she's crying and Lightning's own eyes sting in response. "I was so worried."

"I'm sorry." It sounds lame to her own ears. She can just imagine how pale the apology is for Serah.

"You should be! That was the stupidest thing you've ever done." Serah snaps. Then she snorts and chuckles, sniffles once and says, "But since you're okay, I'll forgive you."

Serah always forgives her too easily. Lightning doesn't deserve her. "You always do."

"What?" Lightning closes her eyes and berates herself. Something in her tone gave her away. She knew this call was a bad idea. "Claire? What's wrong? What's going on?"

It was easier to be strong and brave before she thought about her sister. Dying doesn't terrify Lightning anywhere near as much as the thought of breaking Serah's heart.

"Nothing," she lies.

"Don't lie to me," Serah insists. "I know you! Don't you think I know when something's wrong?"

Of course Serah knows when something is wrong. She's smart and sensitive, and she makes Lightning ache with pride.

"Okay." She clears the frog from her throat. "Listen, Serah. There's something I have to do. And it's a little bit dangerous." Serah starts protesting but Lightning talks right over her. "I don't want you to worry—"

"Too late!"

"—because I'll be fine." Lightning is not lying now. She believes that she will be fine, and once she disconnects this call, she has to push thoughts of her sister from her mind in order to make sure her beliefs become reality. She cannot worry about Serah and take care of herself; last year's suicide run to Eden proved just how crazy worrying for her sister makes her behave. "I'll be fine. I need you to believe me."

"What are you doing?" Serah asks. She sniffles and swallows and Lightning knows that her sister is putting on her bravest face. She can picture the downward twist and quiver of her bottom lip, the crinkle between her eyes indicative of her battle against tears. Serah clears her throat and manages to sound calm when she asks, "Can't you tell me that?"

Serah fills her with pride and shame in equal measures. Everyone who knows them believes that Lightning is the brave Farron sister, and that Serah is delicate and fragile. What none of them realize is that Serah is her anchor. Lightning would have flown apart and self-destructed after her parents died if it weren't for Serah.

Taking care of Serah is all Lightning has ever done. It's all that holds her together. Serah doesn't need Lightning anywhere near as much as Lightning needs Serah.

Serah hasn't needed her for a long while now. Lightning will need Serah until the day she dies.

"I don't..." Lightning considers the request, and starts again. "Do you really think that's going to help you? I want you not to worry about me. I need you to believe me when I tell you that I'm going to be fine."

Because if Serah doesn't believe her – believe _in_ her – then what chance does she have?

"And you think telling me means I won't believe you." Serah pauses. "That's not very reassuring, Sis."

"I need to do this, Serah," Lightning insists. She doesn't know what to do, and she's not used to feeling indecisive. If Serah asks her not to go, she's not certain she'll have the strength to refuse her. Refusing Serah has always bordered on impossible for Lightning. "It's important. There are lives at stake."

There's a long pause; long enough that Lightning wonders if the call has dropped. Finally: "Okay. Keep your secrets if they make you feel better. But you'd better keep your promise too."

"Haven't I always?" Lightning returns then flinches.

_No._ She promised that she would never hurt Serah and it seems that she's always hurting her. She promised to protect her, and she drove her to the fal'Cie that long-ago day. She promised her that her life would be happy, and she stole her lover's heart.

She promised she'd always be there for her, and she ran away from their lives like some sort of thief in the night.

Serah deserves better – has always deserved better.

"Yes," Serah replies without missing a beat, tearing Lightning from her own self-flagellation. Serah's faith makes Lightning smile. "And that's why I'm going to do what you ask. I'm going to trust you'll be okay."

"Thank you," Lightning breathes and feels a thousand pound weight lift from her. "I have to go now."

"Wait! Light! About Snow..."

That thousand pound weight hits her right on her head. She's dizzy and flailing. "Serah...I can't talk about—"

"No—"

"I have to—"

"No, wait—"

"—go. I love you."

"Claire!"

Lightning disconnects the call on Serah's huff.

_Smooth, Lightning. Real smooth._

That sucked, but she cannot discuss Snow with Serah. Not right now, and, if she has her way, not ever. If he opened his big, stupid mouth, she can't know it. She'll be too distracted and end up getting herself – and everyone else for that matter – killed. And if he didn't open his mouth, she'll have to listen to her sister talk about wedding plans, and extract promises from Lightning about being the Maid of Honor. The very thought makes Lightning sick for more reasons than she can possibly count.

She's a terrible person and a worse sister.

That whole conversation could have gone better. She closes her eyes, sees her sister's sad face before her and flinches. She gives her head a rough shake to abolish the image, ends up with picture of Snow on her couch, staring up at her with love and loathing in his eyes.

_Of course, it could have gone worse too,_ she concedes.

She opens her eyes, blinks away moisture that she refuses to acknowledge, exhales a shaky breath, turns, and walks back to Hope.

He looks shifty and a tad bit satisfied. She gives him her most scathing look, waits until he deflates before showing mercy. She smirks at him, hands him his communicator and says, "Thank you, Hope."

He smiles at his feet and turns red to the tips of his ears.

She surprises them both by pulling him into a tight hug. He's grown in the past year, she realizes. Where he used to fit under her chin, he's now almost eye-level with her. He's still too skinny by half, but that's nothing unusual on Gran Pulse. Food is harder to come by now that they have to grow it and hunt it themselves.

There's so much to do on this world. She cannot believe how much time she's wasted...

Something in her snaps.

It's enough.

It's enough berating and self-flagellation. She wasted time, but that is not a capital offense. She's tired of feeling bad about things she cannot change.

Guilt begets wallowing, which leads to inactivity which, in turn, begets more guilt. It's a pointless and irritating cycle and she's done with it. She has things to do and if she wastes time thinking about her failures, she will fail again.

She can't afford to fail. There are lives on the line here – lives other than hers.

She releases Hope, plants a soft kiss on his burning cheek, ruffles his hair once before climbing into the Snow Kat.

"Be careful, Light," he begs. She nods. She has every intention of being careful.

"See you soon," she promises.

* * *

Driving the Snow Kat is what Lightning imagines driving a dishwasher on skis would be like. The machine is bulky, awkward and lumbering; turning is a less a decision than an occupation. Going straight and holding steady is more a stroke of luck than anything. The vehicle is cumbersome: all veering jerks and hard shimmies that jar and pull at her shoulders, and set a small fire in her lower back.

It's a beautiful piece of creative technology and it makes Lightning grin.

The Snow Kat eats up the land faster than Atomos. The interior is warm and wonderful as she traverses the terrain. The snow stretches out for miles: forever, it seems. The sunset paints the world the color of blood and the sight is sickening and awesome. Red fades to blush; to purple; to blue, before the world dims. When darkness falls, the surface of Gran Pulse more closely resembles the silver of the stars in the heavens than the lush, green world she first encountered. The view through the foggy, speckled windshield, combined with the hum of the engine and the rattle of the frame is hypnotic. Lightning's mind blanks out then wanders—

_/'Just once,' and then there's lips covering hers, a tongue filling her mouth, twirling, flicking, sending a jolt like electricity to her brain to ricochet down to her toes. Heat spreads sweet and sticky as jam through her whole body. Her fingers are numb where they claw and clutch. Her head spins. Her mouth tingles and she quivers when he whispers, 'Sorry' against her over-sensitized, parted lips. Then he proves he's not at all sorry by sucking her bottom lip into his mouth. He nibbles the moan right out of her, swallows it down like a thief. Her pulse quickens and her focus narrows until the entire world exists only where breath mingles and hot flesh meets.../_

She shakes her head and swears aloud – at him, at herself, at the whole damn mess that the fal'Cie created.

Why did Snow have to force this issue? Things were chugging along just fine until he buckled beneath the burden. He was supposed to be strong and steadfast. He promised he would love Serah forever, and Lightning counted on his belief in his own hero persona to hold him true to his word. He never let her down before, not even when she believed – with every fiber of her being – that he would fail. He almost had her convinced that he really was the noble hero.

Then he kissed her and changed everything. One stolen moment of breath and tongue became the wrecking ball smashing their precarious world.

No matter what she does, or how hard she tries, she cannot purge the taste or feel of him from her memory. She can't forget the heat of his body, or her own desire to know the weight of it pressing onto her.

She is the worst sort of person. It was bad enough wanting this – wanting him – before she recognized the feeling as want at all. It was bad enough lusting after him when it was unconscious and disguised as discomfort. It was bad enough loving him...

She can't go there. She can _never_ go there.

It was all terrible, but this feeling – this _pining_ – is so much worse. It's covetous and sinful.

It's a betrayal of her beloved sister. She knows it is.

So why the hell can't she stop?

"Enough of this nonsense, Lightning." She spends the next five minutes battling with the Snow Kat – also known as 'turning' – in order to conceal it alongside the cliffs to the north. She eases the vehicle to a coast, lets it skid to a stop. She kills the engine and soaks up the remainder of the heat before the bite of the cold outside wriggles its way into the vehicle's cab.

She reaches into her pack, pulls out her communicator, turns it on and drops it onto the passenger seat. The beacon will lead Sazh right to the Snow Kat so he can retrieve it tomorrow if she doesn't make it.

She murders the thought before it has a chance to set down roots. A seed of doubt will get her killed.

She roots around in her pack for anything else she can't bear to lose. Her knuckles brush against something hard and she gropes for it, pulls it from the pouch.

Odin.

She forgot she brought Odin with her on this journey. The Eidolon is sleeping – dormant. She has no more magic, focus, brand, or power to summon it from its sleep.

Too bad. Odin might be useful on this pseudo-suicide mission.

She drops the stone back into her bag. No one will know what it is, and she can't bring herself to leave Odin behind. They've been through too much together.

She will face this trial as she faced her last one – with her Eidolon. If she is to die _(don't think such things)_ , she'll do so with her Eidolon.

She wonders when she became a sentimental ass. She thinks of blond hairs trapped in a knotted bandanna and decides that Snow is to blame. Again. It seems he's to blame for all her faults, current and otherwise. Soon she'll begin rewriting her personal history in order to cast herself as a victim of Snow and his asininity.

She beats all her thoughts of Snow into submission; they'll do her no good tonight. Or ever, really, but tonight is her major concern. One misstep this night will bring death – or worse – with the sunrise.

She shivers, looks at her breath fogging up the inside of the windows, checks the sky through the side window.

_Time to go._

She steps out of the vehicle into the frigid night air and marches toward destiny.

* * *

TBC...


	9. The Faces that You Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, till it seems as though you could not hang on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn."  
> -Harriet Beecher Stowe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter deals with disturbing themes, which should not come as a shock to anyone who has been reading the story. If you are sensitive, don't read it. I don't usually bother warning for things that ought to be obvious (and considering the plot of this story, it really ought to be obvious), but I feel that there's enough disturbing content in this chapter to give you a chance to turn back.

"He who does not punish evil commands it to be done."  
-Leonardo da Vinci

-The Faces that You Meet-

"Why did you think this was a good idea again?" she asks herself after a half hour of walking through shin deep, ice crusted snow. Her ankles are sore from the effort of plodding along, and her feet are hollering at her for allowing them to go numb so soon after thawing.

Her nose is numb, her cheeks are burning, and her fingers throb with sluggish blood flow. She wonders if cold thickens blood. The way all her body systems feel – like they're struggling to continue working with ice in her veins – makes her wonder if she wouldn't bleed something slushy if she were to cut herself.

This walk is taking too long.

She wonders, not for the first time, if perhaps she didn't hallucinate her entire adventure trailing the caravan. Maybe she followed a herd of Adamantoises and mistook them for murderers in her delirium. The idea bothers her – frightens her, even – for its possibility. It's not the most preposterous thing she's ever thought.

It's not even the dumbest thing she's thought _tonight_ , for that matter.

She crests a hill, catches her foot on something and gets pitched forward into the snow. Momentum sends her sprawling, then gravity grabs hold of her and she flails a bit on her way down the icy hill, rolls and spins, gets dizzy, soaked and bruised before coming to rest at the bottom of the incline. She gasps and groans.

That sucked.

She sits up and shakes herself off like a wet dog, spies light in the distance.

She's here.

She swears at herself about her carelessness. Her exposure. That little fumble could have cost her the whole mission. She pulls herself out of the snowdrift, keeps low to the ground as she creeps for cover.

Reconnaissance: it's never been her forte. Lightning is more blunt instrument than surgical scalpel, more hand grenade than sniper bullet. She's always been a hit first and ask questions later kind of girl. If it were only her life in the balance, she'd stick with what works for this mission.

She can plan an attack with the best of them, and execute it better than most. But creeping around and gathering information? Yeah.

No.

That's not her thing.

Still, she's the best woman for this job because she's the only woman for this job. She works her way around the perimeter of the camp until she finds a good angle and then settles in to survey.

Usually a plan involves a way in and another out. She's got the former covered. It's the latter that's her problem right now. Slaughtering her way out is her last resort as it will involve the highest casualty count amongst potential survivors.

There are no acceptable losses as far as she's concerned, so fighting her way out of the camp will not happen unless there are no survivors for her to rescue.

She shivers at the prospect, then shakes her head.

No. She's not here to doubt herself. These types of men don't take prisoners just to execute them. The gut shot bodies of the men at the destroyed outpost are proof of sadism. It wouldn't be satisfying for a sadist to just kill the hostages...not when torture, terror and degradation are available options.

Those women have to be alive; they may wish they weren't, but they are. For now.

Lightning knows it.

A sadist enjoys destruction, and destroying a person takes time. It's like peeling an onion – you have to strip down layers and layers before there's nothing left.

Lightning learned just how hard it is to crush the human spirit during her time as a l'Cie. In the midst of the massacre known as the Purge, people were stripped of their homes, their dignity and their humanity. They were herded like cattle onto trains to be 'purged' to Pulse. They were promised a forced emigration to Hell, but all they encountered at the end of their train rides were the business ends of PSICOM weapons.

They watched neighbors, friends, family and strangers murdered en masse before their eyes. The Hanging Edge was filled with the wails of children, the screams of the dying and the stench of the dead.

She expected the civilians around her to be less than useless.

They surprised her. She remembers Sazh telling her 'they want to fight.'

'Good for them,' she replied, and moreover, she meant it. She had expected everyone on that train to cower and whimper like whipped dogs. She expected them to get in her way or get themselves killed in a panic. Instead, they took up arms and fought for their lives. Had Lightning not been so fixated on her destructive goal, she might have been moved by their tenacity. Unarmed civilians fighting off trained soldiers? It was surreal. But they hadn't just fought. Oh no.

In the end, they won!

The human spirit is a very hard thing to destroy. So, those women are still alive. Lightning is betting her life on it.

She watches the camp for movements, assesses the layout. She remembers the function of the large back building – a garage of sorts for their war machines. The inner perimeter is lined with what Lightning assumes are barracks, except for the northernmost structure. The lack of windows as well as it's fortified position would suggest it as food storage, but Lightning would bet her life it's the prison.

Is betting her life on it, in fact.

Furthest point in the camp, with a mountain behind it, a perimeter fence around it, and buried behind lines of enemies.

Perfect spot for the prisoners. Chance of rescue before the prisoners are executed – approaching zero. Chance of escape without being seen? Less than zero.

This is going to suck.

Lightning takes a steadying, fortifying breath. Plan B it is.

* * *

Alright, so Plan A had always been a long shot. The idea of sneaking in and out unchallenged when her nature tends less towards sneaky and more towards kill-'em-all-let-god-sort-'em-out was far-fetched. Still, she's more naturally inclined towards sneaking than role-playing, so who could blame her for hoping?

Plan B, on the other hand, requires something far more challenging for Lightning than mere stealth – meekness and surrender.

Lightning's jaw clenches at the very thought. She's never surrendered to a thing in her entire life. Doing it now is going to chafe worse than a too-small pair of wet, wool trousers.

Lightning works her way around the dune towards the front of the complex and gives up the sneak part of the game.

She needs to stumble on the compound. She needs to seem desperate. She—

"Hold it right there!"

The voice startles her, makes her stumble. She turns toward it but catches a hand between the shoulder blades that sends her tumbling forward off the top of the dune. Her arms pinwheel for a moment before gravity grabs hold of her and tosses her about like a rag doll. The rolling pummels the wind out of her, and the snow burns her already icy skin.

She comes to a rest at the bottom of the dune, out of breath and disoriented.

"Crap," she murmurs.

"Don't move!"

 _Double crap!_ She freezes. She hears footsteps crunching and she feels her heart kick up a fuss in her chest, tastes the blood in her mouth before the adrenaline charging through her veins steals all the moisture from her mouth.

She hadn't wanted to be _literally_ caught off-guard.

"What have we got here?" The large, hulking figure steps into her periphery, pauses beside her and nudges her with the toe of a boot. She takes in the lone figure.

Patrol. Appearances are deceptive: patrols always come in pairs, which means there's another guard lurking around. If this group is even halfway decent, the partner would be close.

Well, it's not ideal circumstances, but it gets the job done.

_Showtime._

He carries his rifle in a loose grip before him. She could disarm him and break his jaw with the butt of the rifle before he has a chance to let out a yell. A swift elbow jab could crush his larynx. She feels her muscles coil to do just that, to show this terrorist what a real soldier can do. She wants to watch fear fill his eyes as the life drains from him in a slow hiss.

_Remember the plan. Infiltrate. Locate the hostages. Escape before Sazh turns the camp into a smear on Gran Pulse._

She beats her instincts into submission and forces her muscles to unclench.

* * *

_/"You can't attack these men alone, Soldier. You're good, but you're not that good."_

_"'I'm not going to attack, Sazh." Lightning tells him. "And for the record, I am_ so _that good."_

_A lack of confidence has never been her problem._

_"Yeah, yeah. You're amazing and we bow before your magnificence." Sazh is only being semi-sarcastic. She smiles at him until she sees him catch up to the conversation. "Wait. What do you mean you're not going to attack? What's your plan then?"_

_She braces herself for the explosion._

_"I'm going to get captured."/_

* * *

"P-Please..." she whispers, hopes the word doesn't sound as bogus as she feels. "Help me. My transport..."

"Oh, I'll help you alright." He reaches out and grabs her by the hair, drags her up and out of the snow. She feels hair tearing and she grits her teeth. The squawk that she lets loose isn't half as contrived as she wants it to be.

Gaining her feet in shin deep snow with someone using her hair like a leash is difficult. Her struggles amuse the man and he jerks her to the side so she lands on her knees. He presses her face toward his crotch and she recoils. He yanks on her hair until she hears tearing an feels a sharp pain in her scalp. Tears leak from her eyes, forced out by the intense pain. She reaches both hands up and grabs his wrist, digs fingernails in until he hisses and pulls her all the way to her feet.

Every instinct in her insists that she end the assault before it starts. She forces herself not to react as he grabs her hair again to pull her body flush against him. One defensive move will give away the game. _Weak and helpless, Lightning. You're a victim. You're chattel._

She feels her hackles rise and her fists clench at the thought. Her thighs tense up in preparation for a leg-sweep. It takes all her effort to keep her muscle-memory in check.

This submissive, terrified victim thing is going to be harder than she thought.

She lets out a breath and goes limp, babbles about Amphisbaena attacks and dead companions. He slaps her to shut her up, then pulls her face to his. His breath is enough to make her eyes water. He drops his one handed grip on his rifle to get two hands on her body, and the temptation to snap his neck is almost too much to resist.

She squashes it; she needs to get through the gates, and right now, she's half-way to her goal.

* * *

_/'You're out of your damn mind!'_

_"Alright, hear me out."_

_"I don't listen to lunatics! Are you sure you didn't hit your head?" He grabs her head to look in what she considers an overly dramatic move. He made his damn point without the theatrics. "Maybe all the cold froze your damn brain."_

_"Sazh! Listen." He shuts up, but he sure as hell doesn't look happy about it. "If we attack them with the intention of rescue, what's to stop them from killing the hostages?"_

_"What's to stop them from just killing you?"_

_He's got a point, and he knows it. He presses his advantage: "You're not their type, Soldier."_

What the hell is wrong with her? _"I'm a woman," she argues, trying not to sound defensive._

_"You're a soldier."_

_"You see a soldier when you look at me because you know who and what I am. They will see..." The thought makes her face heat and her ears clog with humiliated rage. Sazh looks away from her and stares into the middle-distance – loses himself in thoughts of worst-case scenarios. She doesn't enjoy saying: "They'll see another object to use, and don't you doubt that."_

_Sazh recoils as if slapped. "And why are you going in there again? You're not really making a great case for you_ not _being insane, you know!"_

_"Because they'll walk me right in where they keep the hostages." Sazh shakes his head, opens his mouth to protest more. She talks fast. "And then I'm going to teach them what the phrase, 'don't judge a book by its cover' actually means."/_

* * *

"Aren't you just..." his hand wanders over her body and she clenches her jaw as he grabs a handful of flesh and twists. Hard. She winces and he grins at her, presses his growing erection against her thigh. "...lovely? I'll help you, but what'll you do for me then? You gonna be nice to me?"

To hell with the plan. She'll submit to being groped as a cost of doing business. Anything beyond that is going to cost this asshole his male parts.

He pinches her again just to see her pain.

_And his life._

"Jace? That you? What the hell are you doing?" The pig – Jace – snarls at the interruption, squeezes her hard enough to bruise and mumbles something unflattering under his rotten breath.

"Piss off!" More footsteps. The fingers in her hair twist even tighter, wring tears from her eyes as he bites her neck.

She may have to go with Plan C. Too bad she hasn't thought of one yet.

"Are you nuts? You took one of the bitches out?" Lightning would bristle at the use of the word 'bitches' but seriously, she expected nothing less. "The boss is going to kill you."

"Nah. Found her." He exhales his rotten breath into her face. "How's that for luck? Her transport had an unfortunate encounter with one of the nastier beasties. She came here looking for _help_." He sneers and huffs a laugh into her face.

"Help?" The newcomer looks almost horrified. "Oh, sweetheart, did you ever take a wrong turn."

 _Sweetheart?_ She thinks she prefers being called a bitch. She looks over at the other sentry and he looks almost...sad?

_What?_

It's ridiculous and insulting. She wants feed him his teeth one by one.

"Come on. We gotta take her in."

"Why?" Jace sounds like a petulant child being relieved of his favorite toy. "No one's gotta know. We can do her and dump her."

If that's his plan, she'll have to improvise, adapt and overcome. She has no problem leaving this man drowning in his own blood, if he insists.

A tiny part of her may even be looking forward to it. A little bit of retribution might be cathartic. After all, she's had to endure his hands and his mouth on her already. She has no problem returning the favor, and she has no doubt that she can make the experience for him twice as painful as he made it for her.

"Well, I'm not getting flogged over a some piece of ass, so if you want to deal with the boss's shit, that's fine. You saw what he just did to that that guy? You want some of that tasty action for yourself? Personally, I like my skin intact, thanks ever so." Sentry B – the rapist with a heart of gold – pauses for dramatic effect. "Let go and I'm bringing her in. You'll thank me for it later." Jace curses, squeezes and pinches hard enough to pull a very real yelp out of her.

"I'll see you later, bitch." He releases her, grabs his crotch and adjusts himself. "We're going to have a real good time."

She stumbles at the sudden relief and sentry number two grabs her by her injured hand. She pulls the hand out of his grip with a grunt and he mumbles, "Sorry," and catches her around the upper arm.

_Sorry?_

He steadies her on her feet in the snow. She watches as Jace takes off, mumbling about all the fun they are going to have later.

"You alright?"

The question sends her blood pressure high enough to turn all the snow directly to steam. Her head pounds, her face heats and her fingernails cut through her mittens to embed themselves in her palms. It takes a steadying breath before she feels like she can assume her role as the meek victim. She sniffles and nods, buries the glare as deep as it can go.

She's afraid it's not deep enough.

"Come on. Let's go."

* * *

The march through the camp is humiliating. She's pinched, poked, prodded, groped and grabbed so many times that she is red-faced, aching and bruised in both her body and ego.

Her 'escort' through the camp offers her the helpful advice to "Keep your head down and your mouth shut."

She bites her tongue, banks her rage and lets herself be dragged across the camp. She says nothing as she is 'frisked' – if one can call molestation frisking – and then relieved of her possessions. The stench of alcohol is thick and pungent, and she feels an enormous gratitude that that these men are even bigger amateurs than she suspected. While the small group of guards is distracted going through her bag and turning out her pockets, she scans the surroundings and formulates a plan.

The layout of the buildings creates gaping blind spots in the camp – either they're too arrogant to care, or too stupid to notice.

If she were a betting woman, she'd pick the latter.

She checks the angles on all the watchtowers, spies a deep shadow behind a building near the perimeter fence that looks to be out of line-of-sight of all the lookout posts. The only place that really has a clear view to the space behind the buildings would be up on the cliffs that form the rear wall of the camp. She glances up – and up, and up some more, until the cliffs meet the sky. She can't see any post up there, but that doesn't mean there's no sniper. If this were her camp, she'd post a sniper on the back wall – an excellent marksman with a high-power rifle and a rocket launcher would offer maximum security with minimal supplies.

Considering all the mistakes she's seen, she doubts they're good enough to take such precautions.

Then again, she didn't make it across Gran Pulse last year by offering anything the benefit of the doubt. Erring on the side of caution means that she's going to need a distraction inside the camp to divert all attention from the back wall, and the shadowed blind spot behind the barracks. She thinks of Sazh re-wrapping her broken hand and smiles.

Distraction won't be a problem. All she needs to do is use it to lead the prisoners into the blind spot where they can cut through the fence, slip through and disappear into the shadows of the mountain and the recesses of Mah'Habara.

Then Sazh can bring the rain.

She sucks her teeth and refocuses her attention on the gaggle of guards surrounding her. She watches as they toss her clothing and supplies onto the floor, and stifles a smile when they allow her to keep what they term her 'pet rock.' They cackle at their own cleverness and Lightning has to bite her lip until she tastes blood to stifle a derisive snort.

She holds Odin's stone in both hands and wonders if it would be possible to summon the Eidolon. She would take great pleasure watching Odin cut a path through this pack of wolves.

She goes back to surveying the layout, notes the positions of the turrets and the location of the bunkers in relation to the back building – the prison. A hard jerk on her arm startles her from her perusal, catches her off-guard and almost tears her off her feet.

Her stumble elicits a round of taunting that makes her face and ears burn.

Let them laugh now. It's the last chance they'll ever have.

Escape won't be easy, but considering her captors are a drunken rabble rather than a tight-knit unit, it won't be impossible either. The shadows provide cover, and the perimeter fence is flimsy. All the turrets point outward and the sentries are less than observant. After all, she'd managed to get close enough to the camp to spy and survey.

Twice. And the first time she was hypothermic and exhausted.

The nameless sentry who brought her into the camp mutters under his breath and shakes his head as he herds her toward the 'prison.' He pulls a key from around his neck and slides it into what looks like a Master Lock. A smooth twist of his wrist is followed by a click, thud and squeal, and the door opens to reveal the shadowed room beyond. The guard turns toward her with a look that bears too close a resemblance to regret.

In that moment, she thinks she hates him more than the others. At least they don't pretend to be horrified by their own depravity. This man almost looks apologetic, and yet here he is shoving her into a prison to face a future of gang rape, torture and eventual murder.

She can't wait until this place is wiped off the face of Gran Pulse, but she hopes she meets this one in her escape. She'd like to have a chance to teach him the true meaning of regret.

Something of her loathing must show in her eyes because the regret vanishes under a wave of unanticipated rage. He shoves her into the room and swings the butt of his rifle at her face. The move catches her off guard and she takes the full weight of the blow across her temple and cheekbone.

The thwack resounds in her head and echoes when her skull connects with the ground. She chases after her ebbing consciousness, watches it circle the drain as she reaches for it with grasping fingers—

 _"Welcome to Hell, bitch,"_ he snarls and slams the door.

—and she loses the race by a nose.

* * *

**_"When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, till it seems as though you could not hang on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn."_ **   
**_-Harriet Beecher Stowe_ **

* * *

Part II:

Consciousness comes in stages.

The first thing she notices is the smell. It's a putrid amalgam of body fluids, mold, dust, and stale air, all overlaying the stink of pain and fear.

She gags, and it sets off sparks behind her eyes and unconsciousness threatens to drag her under again.

_No!_

She grunts and rolls her head, searches her memory for an explanation. The images are fuzzy but she pieces them together enough to realize where she is and how she got here.

Her heart hammers away in her chest and throat which aggravates the pounding – stabbing – throbbing pain in her head.

_Get your fear under control, lest it grow into panic. Fear can be an ally, but panic is always the enemy._

She reaches for her training like a lifeline and hangs on with both hands and her teeth! She needs to keep a tether to consciousness. She can't afford to waste time. She can't fight if she's unconscious! She didn't come here just to die.

_Get control of your breathing._

There may not be time to waste, but she needs to reassert control.

She takes a breath through her nose and holds it when the pain in her head goes supernova. She blows it out and repeats the process. Counting...counting...counting until the bright pain dulls to an exquisite but manageable agony.

She tries opening her eyes, but someone must have pulled the pin out of the grenade in her head and the small movement triggers an explosion that sends her plummeting into semi-consciousness.

The next time she rouses she notices the sounds. The room buzzes with an unidentifiable white noise. It's muffled. Distant. But now that she hears it, she zeroes in and listens...

It sounds like breathing. Or maybe voices. Whatever they are, they either too far away to hear, or the blow to her head rang her bell but good.

She spends some time floating in between – a place where her senses are still functioning, but her pain is duller. She tries to identify all the smells and sounds in the room.

The next thing she realizes is that there are hands on her, pawing at her clothes. There's a body pinning her down. She feels the panic swirl up to choke her and she struggles. The weight on her gets heavier as her attacker muscles his way between her thighs, and she feels the vibrations of what can only be laughter rumbling against her prone body.

"Told you we were going to have some fun," he whispers, sweeps a stinky, clammy tongue up her cheek.

Revulsion and humiliation war for top spot, but she can't think about either.

She stops moving and breathes. Focuses.

The hands work at her shirt until she feels cold air spill across her abdomen. Fingers pinch her breast before moving down to work on her pants. She shoves the panic aside and concentrates on her training.

She needs to move fast; she's got one chance here.

She grabs both wrists, pins the right one at her chest and shoves the left one into his waist.

"What...?"

She lifts her hips, brings her left leg up under his right arm and her right over his left shoulder.

"Bitch..."

_Bastard._

She hooks her right foot under her left calf and squeezes. He curses and sputters at her as she uses all her strength to cut off air and blood flow. She feels him trying to break the lock with his left arm so she straightens and twists, pins his right arm to her body, works it until it's trapped under her right armpit, while she arches her body and squeezes.

She's only ever used a triangle choke in training. Back then her big concern was not to go too far, afraid her zeal in combat might severely injure or kill her partner.

She has no such worries now; severe injury or death is the goal.

She squeezes harder, ignores the pain pounding through her head as the man's struggles weaken. There's a dim sallow light filling the room – her attacker must have brought a lantern of some sort – and she watches as the man's face turns purple with trapped blood. His eyes are wide for the few moments it takes for the move to steal consciousness. Then they droop. His body goes lax and still she doesn't let go.

She's in no condition for hand to hand. Only one of them is going to get off this floor alive and she's determined to claim the prize. Her head swims as she continues to squeeze the life from him.

She holds until she's certain he won't get up, then squeezes a bit more to be safe. She's pretty certain she's sporting a concussion, so trusting her senses is going to be an issue.

Err on the side of caution. Two full minutes later she decides that if he gets up, she deserves to lose.

She releases her hold, feels a trembling spasm start in her lower back, and takes a deep breath to work through it. His dead weight collapses across her leg and she shoves and wriggles until the man she just murdered is no longer touching her. Her breath erupts from her in a broken wheeze and she shakes her head, closes her mouth and concentrates on getting it under control.

_Snap out of it. Hyperventilation might end in unconsciousness. Keep it together._

She pulls her shaking body upright, wraps her arms around her knees, and gets her first look at the surroundings.

She almost wishes for darkness.

The room is small and empty but for the lone, dingy, sagging cot. The metallic frame sports cuffs at all four corners. The bare mattress is stained and crusted with filth that can only be various dried body fluids, including some very conspicuous spattered bloodstains. She can't help but be grateful that the savage she just killed – Jace, she realizes – was too interested in making good on his threats to bother locking her to the cot.

Lightning adjusts her clothes, finds tears where the dead man on the floor got a bit too over-zealous. She scowls and kicks at the body, jerks back when an arm twitches. She lets out an undignified squeak and gropes next to her for something – anything – that might pass as a weapon.

Her fingers touch smooth stone – _Odin!_ – and she closes her hand around it, swings it up, across her body and down again, to smash onto the man's skull. Blood arcs up, spatters across her shirt and her face, speckles into her open eyes, splashes over her hand and smears across the stone.

She lifts to do it again – to keep hitting until she sees brain – but she stops mid-bash. She feels like she's unraveling, veering off into full-blown panic. She places the Odin stone on the ground and presses two fingers into the man's carotid artery.

Nothing: no pulse; no respiration. No life.

He's dead, and probably was before she brained him. She knows that bodies can twitch after death. She's seen it once before – something to do with electrical impulses still firing through the nervous system.

_Get a grip. Panic will get you killed. If you die, so do all the hostages._

She stands up and watches the world swim in and out of focus. She blinks through it, touches her temple and winces. Her fingers come away tacky and dark with drying, clotting blood. The bruise is likely spectacular, but blood loss isn't an immediate concern. She can't speak to the severity of the closed head injury but her skull is intact and not gushing blood.

Small favors. She'll take what she can get.

She opens and closes her jaw to gauge if it's broken. It snaps and crackles like breaking glass, sends sparkles of color across her vision with each movement. She takes her chin between thumb and forefinger and wriggles it around a bit. Tears pour down her face as the hinge lets out a dry pop. She curses, presses her palm against her face and waits for the pain to lessen. A few deep breaths later, she prods both cheekbone and orbital bone. The touches cause tears to pour from her swelling eye, but the pain holds steady; the bones are whole, if bruised. She wipes her eye with her thumb.

_Okay, then._

She catches sight of the blood smeared on her hands and wipes them on her shirt. She looks down at the body on the floor and heaves a huge sigh. Things may not be going all according to plan here, but she's doing okay. She's infiltrated the camp with only minor damage.

If one can call an attempted rape 'minor.'

She shivers, feels her legs wobble a bit. Her knees turn to liquid.

There's blood caught under her fingernail, drying into the whorls of her fingerprints.

Her skin crawls in all the places he touched.

"Stop it," she tells herself. "It didn't happen." _Keep it together._

She picks the Odin stone up from the floor, slips it into her pocket and turns her attention to her bandage. She's amazed that they didn't search the cast, but not shocked. It fits with her assessment that they are a bunch of amateurs posing as warriors.

Gratitude for her good fortune floods through her. Her eyes flicker to the cooling body and everything in her seizes up. She looks away and starts working on the cast; her fingers tremble as she picks at the bottom bandages, her insides quiver like jelly, and her breathing is still too fast.

Her vision blurs with tears and her legs don't want to hold her weight. She closes her eyes, presses her shaking hands to her mouth and lets out a silent sob.

The attempted assault rattled her more than she'd care to admit. She feels as if she's skating the knife's edge of hysteria at a time when she needs to be clear-headed.

"Deal with it later, Soldier. Do your job now."

She counts backwards from ten, then does it again. Over and over until she feels her body calm and mind settle.

"Good."

She starts over, picking at the bottom bandage until she lifts the flap and is able to unravel the cast. She ignores the tremor in her fingers as she worms them beneath the heavy bandaging – between splint and arm; she smiles when they brush against warm metal.

_Sazh, you are a beautiful genius._

She slides the shiv from its hiding place and secures the bandage again. The metal catches the dim light, throws a small spot of light into the darkened corners of the room. A thumb scraped over the edge satisfies her as to the keenness of the blade and she feels some of the rock in her gut dissolve.

Being armed does more to calm her nerves than any pep talk ever could.

She palms the weapon, wraps her bandaged right hand around it to get a feel for the blade and make sure the bandaging will protect her hand from the razor edge of the shiv.

Time to go to work.

* * *

She makes it two steps before it dawns on her that she's locked in the building she thought was the holding cell and that she is all alone. The prisoners she expected to find on the other side of the locked door are nowhere to be seen.

Her face gets hot for a moment before her whole body goes numb. If the women aren't here, she has no idea where to find them.

She's failed without doing a damn thing.

Her knees unlock and hit the floor beside the body with a hollow thud.

Nothing. It was all for nothing.

She closes her eyes in hopes of stopping the tears. She came into this camp to save those women and all she's succeeded in doing is getting herself knocked out, nearly raped, and locked up with a dead man. She promised her sister she was off to do something worthy; swore to Hope and Sazh that she had things under control.

And Snow...

Her breath hitches at the thought of him.

_/I want to know you're safe./_

Snow doesn't even know where she is. She didn't give him the courtesy of a call. She didn't leave him a message. She didn't leave him with anything but a bruised jaw and bad memories.

_/I thought we were friends, at least./_

Friends? Is that what they are? Snow has been many things to her since she met him but she's not certain that she ever counted him a friend. He's been pest, grub, enemy, comrade, partner, confidante, and family. He's been savior and destroyer; he's been dream and nightmare.

He is forbidden.

She reaches into her pocket and she finds the familiar knot of material. She draws it out and presses it against her face. A few traitorous tears leak from the corner of her swollen eye to dampen the material before she secrets the bandana away.

_/I'm coming with you!/_

_You did_ , she thinks and the rolls her eyes at her sentimentality.

_Head injuries suck._

"Enough," she breathes. _Stop counting your losses. You have Odin, a weapon, your wits and your life. You've done more with less. Get off your knees and move._

Her effort to gain her feet again is clumsy and clamoring. If she has to escape without hostages in tow, she's going to tear her way through this camp. It'll be violent and devastating; it'll be glorious!

Her boots echo on the wooden floor as she paces the length of the room and searches her mind for a new plan. Something about the noise distracts her; it is somehow wrong...

Echoes? The hollow thud of her knees hitting a wood floor, and the white noises beneath her ear while she lay on the ground – voices or breathing, she thought.

Revelation is an audible click. Her heart does a two-step.

They _are_ here! Right beneath her damn feet.

She hits her hands and knees again to look for a trap door or latch, feels around in the dark corners where the pale light doesn't reach. Her fingers brush something and she grabs it and is stunned to find that it's a rifle. Her hands go through the motion of checking the weapon – pulling out the magazine and counting rounds before reloading the weapon with a slap; maneuvering the bolt, and adjusting the sights. The weapon is adequate. In her hands, it'll be acceptable.

Everyone's odds of surviving just went up a lot.

She looks over at the dead man in the middle of the floor, thankful that the idiot was too eager to make good on all his threats to bother disarming himself and securing his weapon. She sneers at him, then smiles at the gun as she straps it across herself and shimmies it onto her back.

_What else do you think he brought in here?_

She glances at the door to the room, then back to the body. Her eyes flicker back and forth as she fans the flicker of hope burning inside her. She crawls over to the body and begins the disturbing task of patting it down and turning out pockets. She spots a satchel on the far side of the cot and shakes it out. Her search yields another knife, a flask of some foul liquor and a set of keys.

Fortune smiles, and so does Lightning.

She jingles them once and stuffs them into her pocket with her other treasures. She returns to her search of the room, carrying the lantern to search each nook and cranny, spies a notched wood handle and lock in the floor of the corner of the room. She works key after key into the lock until one turns. She stands and heaves open the heavy wooden door.

The smell hits her in her gag reflex; she steps away and swallows the vomit before it can reach her mouth. When her stomach decides to stop doing the Cha-Cha, she tries again. Lightning breathes through her mouth, peers into the abyss and stifles the idiotic urge to call out.

This is no horror movie, and she's sure as hell isn't a damsel in distress awaiting rescue from a mysterious boogie man. She just killed the boogie man, and the only one coming to the rescue here is her.

She has work to do.

* * *

She grabs the lantern, steels herself and descends the creaking stairs deeper into hell.

The darkness in the cellar is so thick that her torch barely cuts it. She squints through the feeble circumference of light into a living nightmare. It's not a surprise – it's what she'd been expecting, after all. Still, knowing a thing and seeing it are two different animals.

The flinch is as involuntary as her gasp.

She never thought that she'd see anything worse than the horrors Barthandelus created in order to summon his beloved Maker; never believed anyone could create something more debased than that demented fal'Cie.

She was so very wrong.

The room she stands in is less a prison than a torture chamber. There are people – women, and those too young to deserve the title – chained up and strewn about like decorations. The air reeks of a combination of sweat, urine, vomit, all underlying the pungent stink of fear. There are all manner of nasty contraptions: some she recognizes in a vague way, some she's never even imagined. She takes a step towards one table, sees the blood stains on and around it and decides to leave it be.

Some horrors are better left unexplored.

She puts her back to the torture devices – they are not why she's here – and turns her attention to the weeping women. Orphan was right: humans are beyond measure and without equal, even in their depravity.

"P-Please," someone whispers. Lightning snaps out of her gaping and kneels before the speaker. "Please!" Lightning shakes her head and shushes her. "Who are you?"

"I'm here to help," she says and then moves to do just that. There's no time for perusal or reflection; there's no telling when someone will come for another bit of 'fun' and find Jace's dead body.

There's murmuring and mumbling – sounds of fear and hope. They're scared to be hopeful and Lightning doesn't blame them one bit. It wouldn't take long for hope to perish in this charnel house.

She leans closer and examines the cuffs that hold the woman before her to the wall. No locks to pick, just nuts and pins. They are simple to remove. It's puzzling that these men who keep their prisoners behind two locked doors would be so blasé with their hardware.

Lightning takes in the taut chains that hold the women's wrists against the wall at shoulder height. As Lightning unscrews the nut from the pin, the answer to riddle becomes apparent.

Breaking a body is easy, but breaking a spirit requires creativity. Like erosion, it's all a matter of time and relentless force.

The locks are all part of the torture: the promise of freedom held just out of reach. Each woman would know that freedom was but inches away, if only they could reach, if only they had a few more inches of chain.

And of course, they never would or could.

_Bastards!_

She snarls and jimmies the pin out with her shiv. The woman groans – a sound full of two parts pain and one part relief – as she lowers her arms for the first time in who-knows-how-long. Lightning goes to work on the next cuff and she hears a whispered, "I don't know who you are, but thank you. But please...please you...you have to help the others."

That brings her up short.

"Others?"

The woman nods and points to the far end of the cellar. "They separated us when we got here. They took my daughters from me."

Lightning puts a hand on a shaking shoulder and hopes that it offers a small measure of comfort or reassurance. She half expects to be shoved off – Lightning doubts she could bear having anyone touch her after suffering the sorts of assaults that this woman must have endured – but the woman leans forward and sobs onto Lightning's shoulder.

Beyond measure, indeed.

"They told us they'd kill them if we didn't obey the rules." Lightning closes her mouth and swallows down the roar of rage. "Said that our families would die if we tried to escape."

_Your families are already dead._

Lightning doesn't ask the woman's name – won't ask any of them. She needs to maintain distance in order to act. She's here to save them – or rather, help them save themselves – not to be their friend.

A bit of compassion leaks out despite herself.

She pats the woman's back and promises, "No one is dying tonight but them."

The woman backs off and holds Lightning's gaze for a moment before she transforms. No longer is she a broken victim. Now she's a mother fighting for the lives of herself and her children.

What was it that Nora had said to Snow on the Hanging Edge?

 _Moms are tough._ Lightning is counting on it.

The chain isn't bolted into anything; it's threaded through loops on the wall. Now that the woman is free, Lightning can pull the chain from where it hangs like a macabre decoration and wind it up. Add some weight to one end and it'll be a great weapon. She eyes the keys in her hand and looks upward, and visions of a master lock dance in her head.

She knows just the weight to use.

"Unchain everyone else in here." She starts counting through keys – six in total – and prepares to open the next lock. "I'll get the others, and then we're all getting out of here."

* * *

The prison basement is a House of Horrors that goes on and on, and each room is worse than the last. Lightning picks her way through the space, finds a total of fourteen living prisoners – less than she hoped but more than she expected – spread over three rooms.

There are a number of dead still chained to the walls. Each one she encounters rams another steel rod into Lightning's spine and another block of ice into her veins.

She hasn't felt this murderous since the start of the Purge. She winds the rage around herself like a familiar shawl.

A couple of women trail her through the rooms, searching for their lost family members. Lightning does her best to block out the sobs – some joyful, most devastated and grief-stricken. She blocks out the sounds of despair and checks each body. The ratio of living to dead drops with each room.

"We're really getting out of here?" one woman – girl! She can't be more than fourteen or so – asks her.

"That's the plan," she replies without making eye contact. The girl becomes her shadow, trails her around the room as she touches fingers to throats and ear to chests to check for signs of life.

"Where's everyone else?"

She wishes the girl would leave her. She needs to keep herself balanced between high-simmer and low-boil, and talking is too distracting.

"Everyone else?"

"Yeah, you know? The cavalry? Or...the army. Or whatever..." the girl trails off. "The heroes."

The word 'hero' feels like a kidney shot. She can almost hear Snow saying it – yelling about being a hero as he throws her a wink – and she smiles and aches at once.

What she wouldn't give to have that dumbass hero with her right now! His bark might be annoying, but he's got a hell of a bite to back it up, and she could sure use his help surrounded as she is by enemies with a group of civilians to protect.

She thinks of him leading NORA in the Purge: protecting civilians and fighting trained soldiers and smirks. This sort of mission would be right up his alley.

But Snow's not here. He's home with Serah where he belongs. He's doing what he's supposed to do.

And so is she.

"There are no heroes," Lightning says and wishes she didn't sound wistful. Or bitter. She clears her throat and tries again: "I'm afraid I'm all you've got."

"But, what are we going to do?" The girl's voice ticks upwards with horror and Lightning turns to tell her to be quiet.

The words die in her throat as she meets the wide green eyes. Suddenly, she's in another hell staring into another pair of green eyes. The memory churns up all those old feelings like so much stinky seaweed. It takes a moment to pack them away again – all that desperation and grief that forged into a weapon to use against Eden.

Against herself.

She thinks of Hope down here, trapped and chained up in this tomb – living amongst the dead, heartbeat transformed into a countdown clock. She thinks of Serah and the horrors that might have befallen her if she'd been unfortunate enough to be en route to visit Sazh and Dajh as she'd planned.

It's Lightning's worst nightmare and this young girl just lived it – just _survived_ it.

Her resiliance is impressive.

"What's your name?"

"V-viola," the girl stammers.

"My name is Lightning, but you can call me Light."

"Light," Viola whispers. "I like that name." Lightning bends back to work as Viola steps closer to her. "Did they take you from your bed and burn your home too, Light?"

It's less the question and more the offhandedness that makes her fumble. "No."

"So what are you doing here?"

"I came to help," she answers as she unchains the last woman. "I came to get you all out of here." Only two alive in this room – and both delirious from their injuries. A military triage would call these two women 'expectant' and leave them.

Seven, five and two; fourteen of thirty-three. The percentage is dismal, but she still counts it as a win. Lightning has no intention of leaving any of the survivors behind. If they're going to die, she wants them to do so in the open air.

No one else will die in captivity; not so long as she draws breath.

"You came here alone?" Lightning hums an 'mm hmm' and Viola says, "I thought you said there were no heroes."

Lightning smiles despite herself, wonders what it is about her that attracts smart-ass kids. "Can you do me a favor, Viola?" Lightning waits for the nod. "I need you to stay with these women while I get some of the others to come and help carry them out of here. Then we're all leaving."

"But—"

"It'd be a big help," she insists.

"It's just..." Viola pauses and Lightning waits with a raised eyebrow. She resists the urge to tap her foot. "There's still The Pit."

_The Pit?_

Viola points toward another trapdoor.

* * *

Key number four.

"The Pit" is a house for the dead – a mass grave of sorts. The stench in the room is enough to tell Lightning that most of the occupants have long since passed on and gone to meet their Maker. She hopes that the next life treats these souls better than this one has. From what little she can see, it can't treat them much worse.

The bodies are stacked two and three deep at some points, piled up like sandbags in a makeshift levee. It's appalling.

Despite the stench and her own budding squeamishness, Lightning works her way through the room checking body after body for any sign of life. She left the lantern above with the survivors – a decision she regrets with her whole being as she picks through the piles of carcasses. No light means she has to handle each body – check pulses and respiration – to determine whether they live or die.

Each body she touches is in a different state of decomposition. Some are fresh enough to be in full rigor – less than twenty-four hours dead – while others are already putrefying. Touching one body gets her a handful of maggots that almost startles a girlish squeal from her.

"Keep it together," she whispers and waits for her heart to release its death grip on her throat.

Every dead body appalls her further, makes her wonder what sort of mad men occupy the camp. She'd thought she'd plumbed the depths with the Sanctum and Barthandelus, but these men are operating on a whole new level of dementia. Why keep these bodies so close? Why leave them to just...rot here?

Corpses carry disease, infect water supplies. It's one of Bartholomew's largest concerns as he designs the cities. And even if these murderers know nothing of the dangers of death, the smell is enough to deter most people from keeping them too near.

_Unless..._

She looks around the cold space and has a chilling thought. She runs her fingers over the stone wall and they come away gritty with ash. She rubs her fingers together and gives them a tentative sniff.

Gasoline.

It's a crematorium. They pile the bodies up, pour an accelerant over them and incinerate them all.

Then they start all over again.

She considers ceasing her search, leaving the rest of the bodies unchecked and getting out while she still has some semblance of her sanity, but finds that she cannot. She needs to complete this horrible task, to count and confirm the dead. It's the least they deserve.

"Light?"

She whips around toward the voice and sees a vague outline against the stairs.

"What are you doing down here?" She abandons her task and crosses the room towards Viola. She grabs the girl's arm and propels her to the stairs. "You shouldn't be down here. This is no place for a..."

_Child._

She doesn't say it but Viola hears it all the same. Lightning braces herself for a very familiar teenage hissy fit.

 _Nice going, genius._ You'd think she'd have learned something from dealing with Serah and Hope.

"I'm not a kid," Viola insists, voice flirting with hysteria. "And...I have to be here."

"No, you don't. I know you're not a kid," _not anymore,_ "but this isn't any place for anyone. You understand?"

"I have to be here because my sister is down here," she chokes and breaks down into great heaving sobs.

Her sister. Lightning shivers, shudders at the horror.

The thought of her sister in a place like this is worse than anything she can imagine. It's worse than losing her to crystal stasis; worse than turning into a Cie'th.

Worse than tearing Cocoon out of the sky.

The words pour out of Viola then: "It's m-my f-fault. She was protecting _me_! And they t-took her. I heard her crying, and...and then it just... _stopped_. She's dead, I know it, and it's all my fault."

"No!" A girl protecting her sister is something to which Lightning can relate, as is searching for a lost sister. Viola's grief is something she can understand at the same time she cannot even imagine it. She has no idea what to say except: "It is _not_ your fault."

She shoves her own grief aside, pulls the weeping girl into her arms and waits out the sobs that wrack her body. She rubs her back and offers no more words. There are no words. There's no one alive down here, and they can't carry the dead out. If her sister is down here, this will be her grave.

The icy logic burns her, but she knows she can't do anything for the dead but avenge them. She needs to concentrate on helping the living now.

She turns the girl away from her and urges her up the steps with a quiet, "come on," and a hand between her shoulder blades. On the second step up there's a sound from behind them. Every hair on Lightning's body stands on end. She clamps her hand over Viola's mouth to muffle the startled squeak, hopes that she managed to stifle it enough. She turns toward the sound and watches a door on the far side of the ceiling swing open.

Her heart speeds up at the thought of being caught in this room. She keeps her hand over Viola's mouth and drags her off the steps and into a pile of bodies.

The girl bites into the flesh of her hand hard enough to break skin, but Lightning refuses to relinquish her grip. Cold air blasts into the pit and she can see an ominous sky through the opening in the ceiling. It looks like another storm is brewing, and Lightning imagines the scent of fresh snowfall on the air.

She hears laughter followed by the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh. A pained groan floats down on cold air and hits her nervous system like an electrical current.

_Not. Possible._

"You wanted to see them, well here they are! Enjoy it, hero!"

A body topples unrestrained through the opening, drops the twelve or so feet from the ceiling and lands with a wet thud on the ground.

Lightning's hand drops from Viola's mouth and she breaks cover before the heavy door swings shut.

She doesn't notice the girl tugging on her arm, hear her whispered pleas, or feel the bodies squelching under her as she climbs them.

She can't feel anything but her heart in her throat, hear anything but her own denials, or see anything but the silhouette of Snow's body lying on the floor.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Feedback is love!


	10. The Eternal Footman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Chapter - March 2020  
> "There is no such thing as helplessness. It's just another word for giving up." ~ Jefferson Smith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a medical professional. All medical information is researched, but is always subject to errors since I'm not a medical professional. I try to be accurate when describing things, but this is still a Final Fantasy fiction. So, if you see any glaring errors, please let me know and I will do what I can to fix it.

_Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy XIII. This is an AU, and is not canon compliant with FFXIII-2 or Lightning Returns. At all._

_I'm back. Notes at the end._

* * *

**_"There is no such thing as helplessness. It's just another word for giving up." ~ Jefferson Smith_ **

**_~10~  
_ ** **_The Eternal Footman_ **

_I. Tension:_ _Between Dying and Birth_

_'At the first turning of the second stair_   
_I turned and saw below_   
_The same shape twisted on the banister_   
_Under the vapour in the fetid air_   
_Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears_   
_The deceitful face of hope and of despair.'_   
_~T.S. Eliot, Ash-Wednesday_

_NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo_

It's not possible. It's a nightmare. Or a fever dream. That's it. A fever dream. A hallucination caused by any number of near death experiences. Or maybe the drugs. Sazh drugged her, didn't he? It wouldn't be the first time that she had a strange reaction to elixir. There's no way that this can actually be real. He isn't here. He can't be here. He's safe at home with Serah.

_NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo_

She's delirious, or dying. Maybe she's still buried alive. That might explain why she can't breathe at all. How many times has she thought of Snow since that night? How many times did she dream he was right beside her? How many times did she hear his voice, or feel his breath? How many times did her mind conjure the taste of him? Why should this be different?

That's all this is. Her traitorous mind and body finally tripping over from teasing to torture. That's all.

_NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo_

She doesn't want to think about what she's crawling through as she feels her way across the floor. Her hands feel greasy, and she nearly face plants into the grime _(viscera)_ several times.

_No!_

There's something pound-pound-pounding away behind her eyes and in her throat. The ground feels unstable, like there's an earthquake, or some subsistence deep within the core of Gran Pulse. Is there a fal'Cie buried beneath the surface, only now waking?

NO!

Barthandelus believed that sacrifice would herald the return of the maker. Maybe he was right. Maybe the Creator will return now for a final judgement.

"Snow?"

_Will they be found wanting?_

Her hand brushes against soft hair, cool skin gone clammy in shock, and sticky with too much blood. She gasps.

_Will she?_

' _And pray to God to have mercy upon us….  
…May the judgement not be too heavy upon us'_

"Snow?" Her hands find him in the dark. She pulls herself to his side, blind in the absolute pitch of the Pit. She doesn't need vision to know his body, though. She's known Snow by feel, sound and smell since the war. She's healed him more times than she could count. She carried him – half dead – through the streets of Felix Heights. His fingers have pressed bruises into her flesh – catching hold of her as she was thrown from the tower, or pushed over a cliff, or under the stomping feet of an Adamantoise – almost as often as her magic has erased bruises from his.

For all her denial, she knows the weight of his body on hers. More than once, Snow has full-body tackled her, driving the air out of her lungs and her body into the ground, before wrapping his arms around her and rolling her beneath him. Snow would tuck his face into her neck, put his arms over his head and let the hardened armoring of his coat protect them both from the deadly attacks.

She knows the cadence of his heartbeat in the heat of battle, the rhythm of his breathing as he _SleepsDreamsFightsRunsLaughs_. She's memorized them all, and knows by sound and feel whether he needs to rest or run, throw up or throw down. She's seen him stooped under the burden of guilt and brought low by loss; they've celebrated and wept together.

She's held him up, and been buttressed in return. She's felt his heartbeat slow and stutter under the strain of blood loss, and felt its steady thrumming as he recovered from injuries.

She knows this man.

He can't be here.

But he is.

' _Because I do not hope to turn again  
Because I do not hope…'_

"Snow?"

She knows this man. Knows his grunts and grins; knows his snores and sneers. Like a cartographer, she has mapped the plains and valleys of his body; her fingers have traced the locations of every scar and freckle. She's learned the history of each one. As she disinfected, sutured, cauterized, and debrided new injuries, she uncovered the myths and the mysteries of every existing mark.

 _What about this one_ , she would ask, brushing her fingers over silvery, or brownish, or pink skin. She'd trace the outline, and say, _looks like it hurt;_ a solicitation. Snow would huff out a, _nah,_ or, _it was nothing_ or, her personal favorite: _fuck yeah, it hurt,_ and would recount the tale to her. She'd clean out the fresh puncture, gash, slash, or burn with as much care as possible, then slip the point of the hooked needle into his skin. Snow's muscles would twitch and spasm as she worked; his breath would hitch, or hiss, or escape him as a gusty huff, but he never flinched from her.

_Just cauterize it. We can get going._

_We're not going to just keep burning you, you idiot._

_Why not? It's easier._

Sigh. _Just shut up and sit still._

Bring the edges as close as possible without discomfort; keep sutures small and close, but not too tight. Too little tension and the wound won't heal; too much tension, and the sutures can cause ischemia and necrosis.

Always compensate for his range of motion or he'll burst his own stitches, and ruin all her hard work.

Snow's scars are an essential part of him; they chronicle the history of his life, transform the topography of his body, and therefore, they're beautiful to Lightning. Each mark a monument to a moment of greatness, or a landmark to a loss; each one a shared story of survival, a secret sacrament, stippled on skin and bone, and sanctified in blood. Their ritual of healing was one of quiet grace and reflection; a celebration of continued survival. Even still, each of Snow's scars seems a little like desecration.

So when her fingers brush against a body in the dark, she knows it's him. When her hands slip from his hair, down over his face, neck and settle on his chest, her mind's eye conjures him in vivid detail.

And when her palms settle on a sternum that does not rise and fall with breath, or thrum with a heartbeat, she knows it's him. She lays her head on his chest, hoping her ear will detect what her hands cannot. But she can hear neither breath nor heartbeat; nothing of Snow remains in this broken body. All her cataloging, and contemplation, rumination and reverie about the landscape and history of this body, are meaningless. All her careful work healing and protecting him, and still, Snow is gone.

_No._

He can't be dead. _She just_ _heard him._

' _If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent  
If the unheard, unspoken  
Word is unspoken, unheard…'_

She's not surrendering him without a fight. She places her lips over his, tastes the blood and ignores it. She breathes for Snow.

_One._

Snow laughs from his belly, shouts from his diaphragm.

Right now, his diaphragm is still, refusing to contract. If it remains thus, Snow will never again laugh or shout; in fact, Snow's lungs will never pull in air on their own, and Lightning will have to continue mama-birding oxygen to him, indefinitely.

_Two._

Snow's ribs feel like a scrambled up jigsaw puzzle beneath the flesh of his torso. Nothing is where it belongs. Shifting him at all might drive one of those bone fragments into any number of precious, vital organs.

' _And I who am here dissembled  
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love  
To the posterity of the desert…'  
_

Once, Snow was gored by a three-headed monster. Each head grabbed a limb – except the middle head. That one clamped down on his torso – and pulled. Lightning knelt in a puddle of Snow's blood and rewrote all the known rules of magic and reality, and nearly killed the rest of them in the process of saving Snow's life.

All that power, all that effort, and all she can do right now is fold her hands together over his sternum and press.

' _Teach us to care and not to care  
Teach us to sit still.'  
_

Broken ribs can puncture a lung, or spleen, sever any number of vessels. But if Snow's heart won't beat, then what does it matter?

Snow's heart is as still as his diaphragm.

The brain has approximately three minutes of emergency energy to sustain itself in the event of anoxia. Brain damage and brain death occur one to three minutes after all emergency supplies are exhausted.

Four to six minutes. How much time has she already wasted just searching for him? Five seconds? Fifty?

Snow's heart is still, refusing to circulate blood and oxygen, so Lightning has to do it for him.

She drives downward, counting. Counting. The count is important.

…Don't lose count.

' _Because I know that time is always time  
And place is always and only place…'_

Dread and denial jockey for dominance, chasing one another away before coiling back again, knotting together, winding and wending within her chest, wrapping around her throat. An ouroboros entwining and ensnaring her.

A trap. A noose.

She ignores the ever-increasing pressure and works.

' _I renounce the blessed face…'_

CPR is a rhythm and cycle. Force oxygen into the lungs, and then pump-pump-pump the heart until that oxygen has circulated. There's no time for thinking, or guessing. There's no air for talking or complaining. Nothing exists but the unmoving chest beneath her hands, the cooling lips beneath her mouth. And the count, of course.

Mustn't forget to count.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty._

_Breathe._

_Breathe._

' _Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…'  
_

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty._

_Breathe._

_Brea—_

The noose snaps taut and for one second, the sob strangles her.

_Pack it in, soldier._

'… _Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.'_

Grief consumes both oxygen and time, two resources that are at such a high premium that she may not possess enough _without_ frivolous indulgences like crying. _Work now, think later._ She pulls in a mouthful of air bends to Snow's lips again, and forces it into him.

_Breathe._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty._

_Breathe._

_Breathe._

Ad infinitum, if necessary.

' _End of the endless  
Journey to no end'_

Tiny fireworks explode in the blackness of the room, warning Lightning that she's reaching the limits of her endurance. She's not getting enough air. Giving all of it to Snow, and her biggest regret is that she can't give more. She'd rewrite the laws of nature, tear Cocoon from the sky; resurrect Barthandelus just to kill him all over again, if it meant saving him.

She can't do anything but breathe and count, so that's what she does. As long as she's breathing for him, then he's getting air. As long as she's counting, his heart is pumping. It's all she can do, so that's what she does.

' _Lady of silences  
Calm and distressed'_

Colors splash across the blackened canvass of the darkened Pit. Unconsciousness or death will both lead her to the same place. Hopefully, Snow will be there. She has no intention of stopping until Snow breathes, or she reaches that final destination.

_'Lord, I am not worthy  
but speak the word only.'_

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty._

_Breathe._

_Breathe._

'… _Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring  
With a new verse the ancient rhyme.'_

CPR has diminishing returns. The longer it takes, the less likely it is to work. Time is as much an enemy as her own physical limitations. She knows that if it doesn't work soon, it's not going to.

Then what the hell is she going to do?

No. She's not giving up. Snow wouldn't ever give up on her. If he had, he wouldn't be lifeless here.

_Pack it in, Soldier._

She can't think about anything except the count.

Just.

Keep.

Counting.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty._

' _Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair'  
_

She puts her mouth over his, breathes into him, and gets a mouthful of blood as Snow coughs out a ragged breath. She hovers over his mouth until he sucks another breath in. Exhales.

Inhale...

Exhale...

' _And after this our exile'_

And again.

Again.

_Okay._

She presses her fingers to his throat, feels the pulse stagger—

_/Thud…..thump-thud….….thud…thump-thud…thudthudthudthud…..thump-thudthudthudthud…./_

—before steamrolling along at a dangerously fast clip. His poor heart is so strong, and desperately wants to do its job, but it's struggling. Blunt force trauma to the chest can cause cardiac contusions, leading to cardiogenic shock and arrhythmia, both of which can lead to a cardiac arrest. The state of Snow's rib cage tells a tale of severe beatings. There's a chance that Snow's heart will be permanently damaged from the abuse and subsequent crash.

The blood in her mouth from CPR, coupled with the rapid heartbeat suggests _hypovolemia:_ blood loss from external or internal injuries.

Or both.

Probably both. The blood she tastes can't account for the blood she smells on him. Low blood volume coupled with mechanical damage to the heart muscle increases the likelihood of arrest: his damaged heart will have to work too hard to pump too little blood, all while receiving too little oxygen.

Nothing to be done for it now. She needs to stem the blood loss, if possible. But if it's internal...

She felt the broken ribs, hears the crackling-burbling of each breath, and knows that a punctured lung is likely.

 _You did that,_ slithers through her mind.

She knows, but can't bring herself to regret it. If she hadn't raged his heart into beating, what good would unpunctured lungs be?

* * *

' _This is the time of tension between dying and birth…'_

She rests her forehead on his, waiting for the sparkles in her vision to clear, sucking greedy gulps of fetid air, trying to replenish the oxygen in her own body before she does something incredibly stupid, like swoon, and fall on him.

His breath is too cool against her face and neck. The medic in her whispers, _hypothermia_. His skin is clammy beneath her palm. _Shock._ His breathing is labored, crackling on every inhalation.

_Pneumothorax._

Once upon a time, she could have fixed him with a thought.

' _Because I do not hope to know…  
The one veritable transitory power…'  
_

She knows this man.

At the start of battle, Snow cracks his knuckles, then his neck, rolls his shoulders and widens his stance. He makes himself the biggest target on the field; larger than life.

He drives her _crazy_.

Taking down the strongest or most powerful enemy first is an effective strategy. It's an intelligent strategy; one she's employed to great success many, many times. Eliminate the big one, and then pick off the smaller, less dangerous targets at your leisure.

In their case, 'smaller and less dangerous' means Fang's brutal one-shot kills, or Sazh unloading a hail of bullets in cold blood; sweet Vanille turning into an angel of death; Hope, raining down hellfire as a last resort.

Or Lightning owning the field like a veritable army of one.

Their enemies aren't blessed with an overabundance of brains.

In battle, as in life, Snow talks shit, _nonstop_. He taunts, and mocks. ( _This will only take a minute.)_ He laughs and insults. _(Haha. Eat this!)_ He aggravates and antagonizes everyone – _everyone!_ – as an actual, real life, honest-to-goodness strategy. No matter how often Lightning tells him that he's being stupid, and reckless, and is going to get himself killed, he just keeps right on trash-talking through every battle.

 _You're no fun, Sis!_ He declares, and he's both right and wrong. She's definitely no fun, and she's also _not his sister_.

You know what drives Lightning crazy? Other than every single thing about him?

It works. Somehow, it always works.

* * *

 **_II. Twilight:  
_ ** **_Between Birth and Dying_ **

_"Hour and hour, word and word, power and power"_

She knows this man.

Knows the feeling of his hands on her body as he stops her bleeding out into the mud; knows the feel of his fingers sliding across the skin of her neck, and the press of them as they cup the flare of her hip. Knows the sound of his panic as she spirals into unconsciousness, leaps from cliffs; journeys alone in the winter through the deadly wilds of Pulse. She knows the shape of his rage, and the color of his frustration, as she tells him to back off, ease up, and mind his own damn business.

Closes her eyes and conjures the feel of his lips moving against hers, the feel of his breath across her face. Knows the taste and texture of his mouth; covets the memory of his tongue stealing past her parted lips, flicking at hers before twining around in a slow, sensual rhythm. She mapped the textures of his mouth with the tip of her tongue, moaning as the slick smoothness of the underside of his tongue gave way to the expansive flat, then the pointed tip, tracing the inside of her teeth and lips.

Will never forget tasting his blood from his lips, or the feel of it spraying her face as he exhaled a borrowed breath.

Never wants to think again about the feeling of his lifeless body barely responding to her desperation.

_"No place of grace for those who avoid the face"_

Snow is big, and strong, which leads their opponents to conclude that he's slow: an immovable object on the field, waiting for waves of enemies to break themselves upon him. That's a mistaken assumption that none of them ever live to regret. Snow is a force of nature: he hits like an earthquake, advances like a tsunami. She's seen him demolish enemies four times his size with his bare hands before announcing to anyone still alive, _I'm more than just a pretty face._

Snow is devastating. On the battlefield, hopped up on enough adrenaline, stimulants and magic to turn his eyes into blue-ringed black holes; covered in the blood and viscera of whatever enemy was foolish enough to rise to his taunts, Snow is glorious.

He's a blood-soaked warrior god, and he makes Lightning _crazy_.

Makes her want to punch him, shove him, pull him, keep him.

Makes her want to climb him like a tree.

And right now, his diaphragm contracts, and his heart struggles as it pound-pound-pounds against the broken bars of its cage. Right now, he's alive and can continue making Lightning crazy.

But for how long?

Now would be a great time for the Maker to put in a cameo. Deus Ex _Go Fuck Yourself_ , and all that!

* * *

_"No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny  
the voice"_

She needs light, even though the thought of seeing the wreckage of this man threatens to push her into either blind panic, or blind rage.

Or both.

She needs to get him out of here, but moving him will kill him, and leaving him will kill him, and she has no clue how to deal with this.

Snow moves his head, let's out a whimper.

"Snow? Can you hear me?" _Please hear me._ She finger-combs through his hair, nails snagging on tangles and matting. Snow takes meticulous care of his hair, and while it's a minor thing, Lightning's vision whites out from the inferno of rage inside her. "Snow?"

He swallows, gasps: "L-Light?"

She sobs, then holds her breath. She can't afford to go from CPR to hyperventilation. Snow's hand brushes against her face, rests against her cheek.

"Hey there, Hero."

"N-no," he breathes. "Please, no. Please, gods no…" he trails off, fingers falling away from her face. She catches the hand and holds it against her cheek. "No. You have to run. Get away. G-gotta go. R-run, Li—"

She closes her mouth over his, swallows down his urgent pleas. It's preposterous to think that she would go anywhere without him. He hums against her lips, but under it all, she can still hear him begging her to flee to safety.

She breaks the kiss, and he's still mumbling, "Go. Please. Get away from here."

"Shut up," she orders. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"Lightning. Ssso s-s-sorry," he hisses in gusty puffs of blood-tinted air; his voice is a ragged thing.

"Shut up," she repeats. She kisses him again and he attempts to participate in this one. She can still taste blood on his lips, tongue and breath. She breaks away. "We're getting out of here."

Snow gurgles a chuckle. Just listening to it is painful; she can't imagine how much every breath costs him.

"You know how I hate disappointing you, Light," he chokes, misting blood across her face and neck, "b-but I think I'm going to have to pass."

"Well, then I guess we're both staying, Hero. Because I'm not leaving without you."

"…Lightning," he whines, coughs more blood all over her face. " _That's not fair._ "

She presses her lips against his and his fingers slide into her hair to hold her against his mouth. When she breaks the kiss she says, "Of course it's not." She kisses him again. He brushes his thumb beneath her eye, then down her cheekbone. She whispers into his mouth: "I fight dirty, Snow. You know that."

He huffs a laugh that twists into a breathy: " _hurts._ " She nods against his forehead.

"I know," she says. She can't imagine a bigger understatement. "But we have work to do. I need you, Snow."

"….K," he exhales. She waits for the next inhalation, counting heartbeats, dread pooling low in her belly as she prepares to start breathing for him again. If he crashes again so soon after resuscitation, she doubts she'll be able to bully his diaphragm into contracting again, and even if she does, she doubts that he will awaken intact. That is unacceptable.

A too long moment later, Snow gulps in a large mouthful of air and holds it. He swallows around it, throat clicking with the effort. When he finally releases the breath, Lightning notices that the crackles in his lungs are also whistling. The exhalation goes staccato. Snow shudders, sucks a shallow breath, and sobs it out.

He's breathing too quickly, losing the battle against the agony in his body. Every breath sounds like it's being torn out of him. His breathing has motored right past labored into hyperventilation. Snow is going to render himself unconscious.

_Or dead._

"Come on, Snow, slow it down a bit."

His respiration only increases, picking up an edge of panic. He takes rapid, shallow breaths that sound like he's sucking air through a sopping t-shirt. The wheeze is full of vibrato with whistles that snap like bubblegum at the deepest point in his lungs. Snow gurgles around a mouthful of blood-soaked air, tries to get another breath despite the bubbling in his chest, and he hacks and chokes on every sopping lungful.

Lightning slips her arm under Snow's neck and lifts him upward enough to get a leg under him. She wants to get him a bit more upright without causing additional pain. If she can't get him up and out of here, Snow is going to drown in his own blood while she sits right beside him; even worse, his pleural cavity is filling with air, which in turn, is crushing his lungs.

Snow is going to die right here in this disgusting hole in the ground if she doesn't do something.

_Doesn't matter what you do. He's already dead. He just hasn't had the sense to stay down._

Snow thrashes and she rests one hand on his sternum, and the other on his forehead. "Calm down, Snow. I'm going to lift you a little higher." He rolls his head side to side in an approximation of a _no._ She wasn't asking permission, but she would have preferred to have it. "It's going hurt even more, but if I don't—", she chokes on the rest of the thought.

Snow seems to be beyond hearing. When Lightning finally lifts his torso, he screeches. Or tries to. Snow has too little air and too much blood in his lungs to achieve any volume, but that only makes it worse. He huffs out a shrill breath, chokes on the blood flooding his larynx; it seeps upward into his mouth only to be hacked out, aspirated or swallowed back down. Snow is the strongest person Lightning knows. Attacks that would kill anyone else don't faze him. He rarely mentions his own pain, far more concerned with preventing or alleviating the suffering of those around him. So for him to be brought so low that he can't even yell about the pain preventing him from breathing, is absolutely horrific.

Lightning's whole body shakes as she braces Snow up. She hopes gravity will help drain the fluids, cause them to settle and pool lower, and allow him to get some air. It's a long, tense moment before Snow subsides. While he certainly not breathing easy, he has managed to find a bit of air.

The choking fit cost him, rendering him insensate. He no longer responds to Lightning's voice or touch. His movements grow lethargic and he turns his face into her neck, panting too cool, too wet breath on her face.

His breathing slows and she knows that if it stops, she's not going to be able to get it started again. Snow's poor body has just been broken too badly to heal without immediate emergency medical intervention, or magic, neither of which are available in this charnel house.

Lightning rests her right hand over Snow's heart, leans her cheek against his clammy forehead and weeps. None of this makes sense. Snow shouldn't even be here. Snow is supposed to be safe at home with Serah, not dying in a Pit on the wrong side of Mah'Habara.

Lightning thought that sending him away and leaving him behind hurt her; feeling his life slip away, knowing that she once might have saved him, but is now impotent and useless, is like being hit with a thousand cattle prods. Every muscle twitches and contracts at once. Her heart slams into her ribs like a wild animal trying to escape captivity. She hears ringing and buzzing, and feels the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end.

"What's going on?" Viola asks, panicked. Lightning forgot about the girl, focused on Snow as she is. "What's happening?"

The world is ending, that's what's happening. Snow's heart is struggling almost as much as his lungs are. The arrhythmia is so pronounced that she keeps expecting each stuttering pause to be the final beat. She presses her lips to his temple, tightens her grip and waits with him for the end.

"We have to go, Light! Something bad is happening!"

When he's gone she's going to get off this floor, get these women out of here, and then return and kill every single one of these butchers. Never mind putting their hands on him, they were dead the moment they laid _eyes_ on him. If they had any sense at all, they'd eat their guns right now to escape her. Lightning is going to carve pieces of them off, sew a coat out of their faces and scalps and wear it as a trophy and warning. She'll gut them alive, stake them out for the creatures of Pulse while they scream their throats raw.

She'll set up a picnic blanket and watch the entire show. Maybe sell tickets.

"Is that you? H-How are you doing that?"

She feels like she's being gutted. The noose of emotion that she fought off for so long snaps taut again. She chokes on the despair, gasps for breath through the horror. She's lightheaded, thinking muddled by too little oxygen.

It's all too much; it's like her entire being is trying to turn inside out. It feels like all the meat of her body is being stripped off her bones under the force of her yawning despair. She's nauseated, but she refuses to relinquish her hold on Snow. Irrational as it may seem, she refuses to release him for fear that he will slip away without a tangible connection to the world. So she swallows a mouthful of bile, tightens her grip, holds onto Snow, and waits for the inevitable end.

She doesn't think she'll survive this loss. Claire died the day her parents did, but Lightning was born. When she lost Serah, Lightning disappeared into a vortex of her own miserable rage. Losing Fang and Vanille stripped the color out of the world, consumed the last shreds of her joy. She couldn't even protect the sisters of her heart, if not of her blood.

Lightning spent so much time over the past year mourning for the loss of her place and purpose. She was a soldier with no army, a daughter with no parents. Her sister was a grown woman, planning a life with the man she loved. Dajh returned to Sazh; Hope had his father. Fang and Vanille were gone from her, but together forever, sleeping. Waiting.

Losing her purpose piece by piece over the months nearly destroyed her. Losing Snow will decimate everything. Snow fills up so much of Lightning's life that she has no idea where he ends and she begins. He's stood beside her and behind her. He's been adversary and ally. He is family, and friend and foe all at once. He tolerates precisely none of her bullshit. He ignores her ranting, accepts her rage, and always returns. He defuses and disarms her tempers, all while driving her absolutely crazy.

She can't take her eyes off him, can't put her hands on him.

He's everything, and the idea of losing him is incomprehensible. Snow is a wall between them and all the threats that would try to destroy them. Snow fills up all the empty spaces in any room he enters; he fills up all the empty places in Lightning's world. Losing him is like being hollowed out and unmade. Or maybe remade, like a pumpkin being carved into a jack-o-lantern.

"What are you doing? Stop it!"

She can't stop anything. No matter what she does, it always ends the same. Try to fix one thing, and break ten other things; try to save something, and end up destroying everything.

"Help me," she whispers to nothing. Or maybe to that fucking absentee landlord of a Maker that Barthandelus loved so very much. "Please, help us, you useless—", she runs out of air before she runs out of words.

 _I need help!_ She begs.

It's a prayer

_('Will the veiled sister pray')_

A benediction.

_('For children at the gate')  
_

An invocation.

_('Who will not go away and cannot pray')  
_

A summoning.

_('Pray for those who chose and oppose')_

The static in the atmosphere of the pit coalesces around Lightning and Snow and Lightning bites down on her tongue until her mouth floods with her own blood. Some part of her recognizes this feeling, is elated by it. Most of her is too busy shielding Snow from the elements to decode the mystery.

She doesn't have to wait long for her answer.

When the storm ends, Odin kneels before her.

**' _O my people, what have I done unto thee.'_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Note: All poetry quotes within the narrative of the chapter are from T.S. Eliot's Ash-Wednesday. They are not in the order in which they appear in the poem. They are in the order in which they are tonally consistent with the narrative of this chapter. I recommend anyone who hasn't read the poem, to go do so. There's a reason I chose it (other than the fact that I love Eliot.) 
> 
> And you had to know it was coming at some point. I wouldn't even call it foreshadowing. It was 7 chapters of a siren blaring: "Odin is coming. Back da fuq up!"
> 
> Author's Note: So, it's been about 1000 years or so since I've updated. (Well, over 8, anyway.) I've got good news and bad news: the good news is, I'm not dead; the bad news is, I'm not dead. I'm sure many of you wish I were after leaving the stories hanging for nearly a decade. The short-short version: real life happened, and just keeps happening. Deaths, crippling depression, natural disasters. All happened. On the upside, I'm working through my depression by writing.
> 
> To the writing details: I'm finishing DIDDTU first. I'd planned on completing the full draft before posting but I'm impatient, and I wanted to put something up as test balloon, so to speak. The writing style in this chapter is a bit experimental, and it's the first writing I've done in nearly a decade, so I'm a bit rusty and a bit nervous that it's going to disappoint everyone after such a long wait. That's to be expected, I suppose. Still, I hope that I at least hit the emotional mark I was going for with this chapter.
> 
> There are three chapters remaining according to my outline. There may be an epilogue. It depends on the flow of the endgame.
> 
> After I finish DIDDTU, I am going back to Evolution. I've actually got a good chunk of chapter 34 already, so... Let's hope that this computer doesn't kill itself like my last one did.


	11. Interlude: A Magic Lantern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odin lives to serve his Lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Lightning and Snow still own me. Odin too, apparently.
> 
> I warned you I was back. Sorry, not sorry.

“By grace of Etro, let thunder herald your arrival. Come forth, sunderer of falsehood.  
A name in blood, a pact of truth. Odin shall rise _his bond eternal and unyielding_.”

“My weapon is light, my steed is thunder. I am the herald of truth. I am Odin.”

A Magic Lantern

When the call comes, Odin feels both surprised and unsurprised. Odin is unsurprised that his Lady would be in need of his aid; Odin is surprised that she finally realized all she need do is call for aid, and he would grant it her.

For long months – an eternity – Odin hears his Lady’s lamentations and tastes her sorrows. He has despaired of her unwillingness to summon him to her side. In the quiet hours of the long dark, his Lady would whisper to the Eidolith of her loneliness and longing for his companionable company, her desire for his aid and solid presence. Still, she would never summon him, and so he waited, ever-frustrated, ever-worshipful as she questioned the health of her mind and soul for longing for his company. It was as though she believed their bond ended the moment her false purpose was completed.

Humans make no sense to Odin.

When an Eidolon pledges themselves, they and the one to whom they are pledged become Gestalt. They are two souls forever united, bonded to one another by magic and grace in purpose and will. They are always separate but never parted, and all the greater for that union.

Odin knows now that it helps when all parties understand the Union and pledge.

 _Of course_ she would long for him: unless and until they two are sundered one from the other, his absence will press and weigh upon her.

And hers on him.

Humans are very frustrating, and his Lady, for all her magnificence, is but a human.

Always is she whispering words of longing to him, but never will she just summon him. The foolish Lady seems determined to go to her grave rather than call upon him to aid her.

Odin spent an eternity resting silently in a place of honor in his Lady’s chambers. He had been well-contented that he would be permitted to watch over her at her most vulnerable, and would always know that she was safe. When she decided to quit her sanctuary and pilgrimage to the Ragnarok pillar, Odin stirred and waited for her to ask him to lend his blade and steed. What could be more befitting for his Lady than for they two to traverse the whole of this accursed world together?

Instead, she secreted him away into her pack, and he had to bear witness to her struggles and wounding.

Humans make no sense.

Sometimes he wishes he could cut away his love for his Lady as easily as he can cut down her enemies, but understands that it is bitter foolishness and not serious desire. Odin knows that he would sooner cut off his own arms and legs than sever the bond to his Lady. For what is he if he’s not her faithful Knight? His sword, shield, steed and self are all hers, and will be unto the end of all space and time.

That is the nature of his bond: eternal.

When they two were buried beneath a mountain of ice and snow, he was certain that her desperation and her will to survive would finally be great enough for her to call out to him. To his unending aggravation, admiration and astonishment, she did not. Instead, she forced him to bear witness to her panic as the cold robbed her of first her senses, then most of her life. He tasted her despair as her body cried out for warmth and air.

Odin shamed himself that day: he lent her a measure of his strength unbidden. She needed him, and was unable to call for him as the cold had robbed her of her best senses. At least, that’s what Odin told himself to justify the small lapse. No one need know that he allowed a trickle of his might to leak out of the Eidolith and into her body. Just a touch, and only until her allies discovered her.

Odin spent those long hours wondering where the Lady’s Warrior was. The Warrior had always protected Odin’s Lady, and Odin had accepted him as his Lady’s Lord. As her Knight, it is Odin’s duty to serve the Lady, and the Lord of her heart, and so Odin had sworn a silent oath to do so. But as his Lady lay freezing and dying in the frozen wastes with no Warrior Lord in sight, Odin realized his foolish mistake.

Humans are inconstant; faithless.

_Wretched._

Odin felt his Lady dying, and knew that he could either act and be named Outcast Oathbreaker, or allow her to pass from this world, unaided, and be named failure. Odin despaired.

And then he heard them.

Her allies had arrived, sent to retrieve her by the Warrior Lord, restoring all of Odin’s faith. Odin should not have doubted.

Humans may be wretched, faithless, inconstant creatures; but these are no mere humans. They are, all and each of them, Gestalt; bonded and chosen, and thus, worthy of Odin’s loyalty in service.

Odin watched as the calm, quiet one – the Patriarch – fixed the damage that Odin’s small measure of power couldn’t prevent. Heard his confusion as to how his Lady managed to survive at all, let alone avoid the worst ravages of frostbite.

Odin smiled, proud of his service, and gladdened that his Lady would make a swift recovery.

And swift it was. Before Odin realized what happened, the Lady had bent her will towards a new task. Chosen a new purpose and mission to which she committed herself.

And Odin, of course.

Once again, his Lady became a Warrior Goddess bent on the total destruction of an evil. Though this evil was all too human in nature, Odin once again swore to aid her in completing her mission, and knew it was only a matter of time before they two would again fight as one.

Odin longed to ride to battle together, but instead, she climbed into some… _machine_ (at least it was warm, Odin conceded), to make the journey to their new battleground.

Odin was certain to conceal the majesty of the Eidolith from the eyes of the Defilers as she infiltrated their ranks. He noted each one that dared lay covetous hands upon her body. He would help her collect those hands later, he knew. And he waited.

And waited.

His Lady was clever, but too impatient, and she must have allowed some hint of her plan to show on her face, because one of the Defilers – a Snake and Trickster – rendered her unconscious. Odin heard the awful sound of the unworthy weapon colliding with his Lady’s skull, and the subsequent wet thud of her body falling to the filthy floor.

She was unarmed, a prisoner, and not resisting, and he struck her in a rage simply because _he could._ Coward.

_Snake._

Odin could not bear it.

Uncalled, unbidden, he still allowed a tiny bit of his magic to slip, touch the unclean weapon, and deliver a mighty shock to the Trickster Snake.

Snakes don’t like electrical burns, it seems. _Good_. Odin doesn’t like Snakes, either.

And perhaps this Trickster Snake will learn to avoid touching what is not meant for, and does not belong to, it.

Odin waited patiently for his Lady to awaken. The injury was minor; Odin had seen her shake off far worse damage in the past. And she had almost roused, when the Defiler came for her.

Odin is still angry that she didn’t call for him. It is his duty to defend his Lady! And when she struggled with the monster who would defile her, Odin almost – _almost_ – came unbidden. He was right beside her; it would have been so easy. One stroke of Zantetsuken, and the filth would be no more. He’d make a necklace for her of the teeth it used to bite her so viciously.

Wretch.

But she did not require his aid, and Odin was glad that he hadn’t shamed himself and her by violating the oath. His Lady is, after all, his Warrior Goddess.

But oh, when she blessed him with the lifeblood of her enemy, he knew that she forgave him for his moment of faithless doubt; would have forgiven him had he so transgressed and aided unasked. So he quieted himself and listened.

He felt her disgust, tasted her rage as she surveyed the depravity of the Defilers’ camp. He waited for her to call him to cut a path through the enemies. He would drop their bodies at her feet as an offering of devotion, a symbol of his pledge of loyalty. He was hers, as was his sword, and he would use it to strike down her enemies, or lend it her so that she might strike them down herself.

She was glorious when she wielded his weapon from astride his steed.

When she finally called him, her heart was not full of righteous fury, her mind not bent on justice without mercy. No, his Lady felt only desperate terror, and so Odin, too, felt terror.

He hates this feeling. It is far too human for his tastes. He longs to destroy all those responsible for inflicting such misery upon them, and erase the terror from their soul(s). He would hand her the hearts of her enemies, and together, they would feast.

When he arrives, they are in a crematorium. His Lady has been weeping. She cleaves to the Warrior, her Lord love. He is dying; nay he is dead, though, he yet breathes. Odin feels grief; because his Lady loves this Warrior, Odin too loves this Warrior.

That is the nature of Gestalt.

“Odin,” she says, and Odin feels her surprise. Her joy. _“Please.”_

She has never begged him, _should_ never beg him. Her will is his will, for he is hers. He will rend whatever monster made her forget this one supreme Truth. The marks on her face from where the Snake ambushed her; the bite on her shoulder from where the Defiler transgressed. None of these injuries require his skill, so Odin turns his attention upward. The battlefield is above, and he longs to paint it in the blood of the wicked. He will cut them down, carve a path through them so his Lady and her charges might walk free.

His mind is already on the field when her hand lands upon his.

Zantetsuken remains unsummoned. He remains on his knees before his Lady.

His Lady has only ever touched him when he hands her Zantetsuken, or when he takes the form of Sleipnir for her. Her distress must be greater than he first ascertained.

_“Please, help him.”_

_Ah!_ Now Odin understands: she called him to aid not her body, but her heart. Odin had dismissed the Warrior as dead, but perhaps he’d been too hasty. Odin takes her hand and places it on her Warrior’s chest, and Odin can see it all.

Ruination.

Odin’s healing magic is for his Lady only. That is not his rule, but the rule of the bond. He can only heal her because they are bonded.

 _“Please,”_ she begs, and weeps.

She is a Warrior goddess, soaked in the blood of her Warrior god. She seeks to preserve his life, and end the lives of those who brought him so low. She…loves him, and Odin loves her. Odin has loved her since the moment he yielded, and pledged himself and his powers to her for eternity.

That is the nature of Gestalt.

Humans are so fragile. Even his Lady’s Lord, this Warrior god she so adores, who Odin has fought beside more than once. The damage is almost absolute; the destruction of his body near total. Odin worms his way into the Warrior’s memories and finds a maelstrom of horror and agony. Boots that kick and stomp, whips that cut and poison, and knives, and brands, and cruel, cruel laughs as they tell him all the horrors they’d visited upon the body of his love...

Unending hours of unending agony, and the Warrior never named his Lady or himself. Never begged for reprieve nor death.

He is worthy, and powerful, and his Lady craves and yearns for him, and thus, so too does Odin.

That is the nature of Gestalt.

The damage to the interior of his body is astonishing, even to one such as Odin, who neither faces nor fears mortal death. Were the Warrior God a lesser man, or Odin’s Lady a lesser Warrior, or were their love untested and unproven, he would already have passed into the next life. But Odin’s Lady is mighty, and the spark of life that burns within her Warrior Lord’s breast was kindled of, and by, her.

And therein lay Odin’s path to the Warrior.

Odin’s healing magic is only for the preservation of his Lady’s life, but this Warrior’s life _is_ the Lady’s life, and Odin will use their Gestalt to turn her into a conduit to heal her love. Make him hale, and then….

…Oh, _then!_

Then, Odin and his Lady – nay, his _Warrior Goddess_ – will have their vengeance. She is _incandescent_ in her hatred and rage. Odin can taste the sweet justice they will mete out.

But first things first: his Lady’s Warrior. Her Lord love.

Odin takes his Lady’s hand and places it on her love’s heart, covers it with his own. Then he sketches his sigil over her heart in the blood of her lover, places his hand on the mark, and opens the floodgate of his power.

His Lady is sublime, overflowing as she is with his magic. Perhaps he ought to have started slower, trickling his magic through her before flooding every corner of her soul, but she is strong, and time is short; she’s exquisite in her agonized ecstasy.

Odin watches as the Warrior’s wounds knit themselves closed – his Lady is a perfectionist when it comes to the tapestry of this man’s skin – then, as his ribs once again take shape beneath the newly knitted flesh of his torso; watches as his breathing steadies and evens out, and the heartbeat stabilizes. Odin’s magic cannot erase all the bruising, nor replace all the lost blood, but it can sustain him until his body replenishes what it has lost.

He will live. He will heal. That is all Odin can do for now.

Odin is exhausted before his Lord is healed. The damage was too extensive for Odin to repair it all at once, no matter how doggedly determined his Lady may be.

It is the work of but a moment, and he breaks the connection, gathers his Lady to him. She rests in the cradle of Odin’s arms for now, and he expends the last of his reserves restoring her to herself.

A lesser being would have been destroyed utterly by the spell he worked through her. She will awaken momentarily.

His Warrior Goddess.

He hears a small gasp, and seeks the threat, finds a small human girl eyeing him with wonder and horror from the doorway. He knows this girl is one of his Lady’s charges. One of Odin’s charges. Odin places a finger against his lips in a shushing gesture – one he has seen countless humans use to varying effect – and she widens her eyes, nods, and then runs from the room.

 _Humans._ They will never make any sense to Odin. _Ever._

A creak above alerts Odin to the threat a moment before the voice yells, “Oi! You still alive down there, Hero? I hope so! I wouldn’t want you to miss the barbecue!” Liquid rains down in all corners of the room, and through the opening in the ceiling. Odin recognizes the odor as one of the foul concoctions that humans use to power their machinery.

 _Machines,_ Odin’s lip curls in disdain. Always humans and their _machines of death._

The defiler above him smells of the Warrior. He wears his vestments and his blood. This one is to be Odin’s reward for doing his Lady’s bidding, he decides. He’s certain she would not begrudge him just one good kill, after his loyal service this night.

The foul concoction splashes on the Warrior’s newly healed chest. Odin has seen enough. He craves action, and has tolerated more than enough from this plague on Pulse. He pulls the Warrior away from the foul flow, rises to his full height and reaches. The pretender thief – for he could only ever be such while adorned in his Lord’s vestments – gasps, “What the f—“

Odin grabs him by the head and yanks. His neck breaks before Odin can even drop him, and Odin feels cheated once again by the fragility of these… _humans_. To die of something so minor while his Lord survived hours of torture at this one’s hands just proves to Odin how unworthy any of these pathetic creatures are. Unworthy to look upon his Lady and Lord, never mind put their hands upon their skin. Never mind covet them in such a disgusting and base manner.

Were Odin human, he would spit upon the corpse. But Odin is Esper, and Eidolon. He is Gestalt, and has sworn to an eternal bond with a fearless Lady, and is now sworn to protect her Warrior Lord.

Odin strips the thief pretender of his stolen identity, and tosses what remains away, like the refuse it is.

This man should be thankful that it was Odin who snuffed out his miserable, worthless life. Had his Lady found him draped in the vestments of her Lord love, nothing in any realm would have saved him from a long, slow, agonizing death. For a moment, Odin almost laments having killed him.

But no! He earned this kill. His Lady would not deny him, nor ever begrudge him, he is certain.

Odin reaches up and slams the trap door again. When the other Defilers seek this one out, they will assume he fell into the room and broke his neck right before the place burned.

That ought to buy Odin time to recoup his powers, and his Lady and her love time to recover from the spell he worked through them.

He then lifts both his humans and carries them out of the crematorium, covers them with the Lord’s vestment. Odin feels something familiar secreted away in the armor, and he is well pleased.

The Shiva sisters will keep watch over his Lady and Lord for now. They two will guard against danger, and the cloak itself will guard against the ravages of cold. It should be only a few moments until they rouse, after all. Odin was quite thorough and careful in crafting and working this spell.

Odin rises, turns the lock to the house of the dead, and sends a small spark through the metal of the key into the room. Odin can feel the heat of the resulting fire through the door, and is pleased that his Lady and Lord will be warmer than he first thought.

Odin surveys his work, feels well satisfied at his accomplishments. His Lady will reward him, he is certain. She’ll call him to help strike down her enemies, and never again will they two be parted. Odin slips away to rest, and to await his Lady’s call to arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Note: I know this isn't the chapter everyone wanted. It's not the chapter I planned originally. I'll be honest, I wanted Odin to feature heavily in the chapter but, he's mute. I wasn't going to just randomly have him talk. So, I went with an interlude from the POV of my Troubadour Eidolon, Odin. The love in this chapter is courtly love: romantic, non-sexual love between a knight and a Lady. Tokens of affection, etc. Chivalry, but the 12th century to 14th Century stuff, not the car doors and pay for your dinner stuff. Look it up if you're interested. There's entire genres of fiction based on it - A Knight's Tale in the Canterbury Tales is a good place to start. Dante too. Or Google Troubadours. Whatever.
> 
> Or just enjoy the chapter. That's fine. But you know me with the references.
> 
> That's how I interpret the Gestalt, and Odin's eternal and unyielding bond: Courtly Love. If I ever write it again, it'll be the same.
> 
> I know that all this was made irrelevant by the mythology of the sequels. This is my interpretation. You can disagree with it, but I called an AU for a reason.


	12. I Am Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I was back? Yeah. Well, this is the second chapter in less than 48 hours. I think this is the chapter most of my readers were hoping Chapter 10 would be.

Disclaimer: Plot mine; characters not mine.

* * *

"The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone."  
~Harriet Beecher Stowe

**I Am Lazarus**

_Odin._

It makes no sense, and it makes Lightning wonder if she has lost her mind completely. She looks at the Eidolon, feels an awful hope spark that they might actually be able to fix—

She looks down at the man in her arms.

— _Sn-No!_

Blood.

So. Much. Blood.

Lightning thought that she'd already maxed out her capacity for grief and horror tonight. Feeling the wreckage of Snow's body as she fought to rekindle the spark of life within it; tasting and smelling his lifeblood as it coated her hands, face, lips and tongue; hearing the agony of his every breath and heartbeat as he first groped for, then clung to, the lifeline she crafted just for him out of bits and pieces of herself.

She knew that they'd done everything they could to destroy him, utterly. Still, seeing the results of those cruel efforts fractures something in her, sends her mind skittering away in search of a hiding place.

It's impossible. She can't do this. She doesn't know how to do this! She flails around for something that makes sense, eyes landing on Odin again, and for the first time in over a year, she wonders if she's gone completely mad.

She almost hopes that she has, because that might mean that _none of this_ is real.

She's sees Odin, but he can't be here. Then again, Snow can't be here either, and yet he is. He's bloodied, and dying, and gasping his last breaths in her arms instead of sleeping back at home with Serah, where he belongs.

So, maybe Odin is here. Of course, his appearance is so convenient that she can't help but wonder if he's not some figment conjured by her broken heart and grief-stricken mind. How did she summon him at all? Odin is of the past, yet here he kneels. Odin is of magic, and focus, and a part of the Lightning who was tasked to end all human life.

As her eyes survey the ruined man before her, take in the gouges, lashes, slashes, weals, gashes, and punctures, all overlaying layers of blue-black bruises, Lightning wonders for the first time if she and her friends didn't make the wrong choice those long months ago. For what good are humans if they are capable of…this?

They _cut_ him. Those words don't do justice to what Lightning is looking at, but the only other word that she has is one that she can't even think about.

_/flayed/_

What remains of his shirt hangs in strips and ribbons from him, pieces of it embedded into the deeper furrows of flesh. Both whips and knives. Maybe something blunter for the punctures, she doesn't know. But she recognizes the damage that blades and whips cause. How could she not after months with Vanille and years wielding a gunblade?

—His coat is gone. The shirt he was wearing is shredded in place, indicating that they left it on when they lashed him. The cotton of his light t-shirt is adhered in places by dried blood, embedded in him from the force of the whip cutting through both cotton and flesh. Where they'd used the knife—

_She can't._

—The matting and tangles in his hair that she felt in the dark are the result of his own blood and sweat drying. It's unrecognizable as blond, and she has no idea what damage they may have done to his head; if his brain is swelling as well. As though destroying his heart and lungs wasn't bad enough—

—Oddly – thankfully – his face is untouched except for the healing bruise she left on him forever ago. But considering how much Snow loves to antagonize, taunt and talk shit, Lightning expected them to have knocked his teeth down his throat—

_/I'm more than just a pretty face./_

—A horrible thought worms its way into her brain. She shakes her head to dispel it; considers using her shiv to dig it out.

 _/Maybe they'll see just how very_ pretty _you are…/_

Her whole being recoils in horror before the idea can form, and it spirals away from her.

—noNo _No_ NO—!

She. Just. _Can't._

 _She'll kill them all.  
_ _All of them!  
_ She'll hang them with their own entrails. She'll—

—But they didn't just cut and whip Snow. Oh, no. That might be too pedestrian. Under all the cuts and blood, Snow's black and purple with deep bruising. On one of the only places of unbroken skin on his torso, Lightning can see the outline of a boot sole. Right over the floating ribs. They stomped him. That explains the rib cage—

—Snow's lips are blue, and she can't figure out if it's from the cold – he's not shivering, which she knows is a bad sign in these temperatures – or lack of oxygen.

_/Both./_

How is he even alive, she wonders? This damage is beyond anything she's seen outside of shuttle crashes or accidents involving heavy machinery.

—She thought the time Cerberus used him as the rope in a tug-o-war wrecked him, but these _creatures_ managed to outdo a pissed off Eidolon—

—Lightning recalls a time when a man slipped between a train platform and the train itself. He was severed at the waist, pinned, held together by the pressure of the train hydraulics and the concrete of the platform. Everyone knew that the moment they jacked the train up to get him out, his bottom half would fall, his guts would spill everywhere, and his body would know it was dead, and behave accordingly. But for nearly thirty minutes, the dead man breathed, and talked and insisted that he barely felt any pain at all.

Space Case, they called it. It was horrific, and no one's fault, but she can't help recall it as she catalogs the damage done to Snow's body.—

How will she ever survive this? What will she say to Serah?

—Odin is before her and she still doesn't understand. Maybe she's lost her mind, but if she hasn't…if there's even the slightest chance that her Eidolon is actually here—

"Odin," she whispers. "Please."

_Please do something. Please anything. Make it stop, old friend._

Odin looks around the room, finds no threat, and casts his gaze upward.

She grabs him. He looks _astonished_ that she would dare lay hands on him. She wonders if he'll kill her for the insult.

The thought is almost a relief.

" _Please help him,"_ she begs.

She knows Odin is no healer, and yet, she also knows Odin can, and has healed her. Her Eidolon is powerful, as skilled in magic as in swordsmanship. She believes he has the power to save Snow. She doesn't know if he will have the desire to do so.

Perhaps he'll kill them both. She almost hopes he does just that. An end would be…better.

Then Odin takes her hand and places it on Snow's chest, and covers it with his own. Now that she can see, she sees the places where the muscle is visible, and where the bone shines through skin—

Snow's first and only thought, upon being resuscitated, was for her safety.

_/'Go. Please. Get away from here.'/_

Everything about him amazes and infuriates her, and she has no idea what she'll do if Odin can't or won't help save him.

_/Kill them all./_

Well, yeah. Obviously, that. But they're already dead. If Odin kills her right now, she knows he'll kill them next.

_Win-win._

Odin reaches out, dips a finger in Snow's blood, and sketches something over her heart that _burns_ and tingles and _shocks and shocks and shocks._

Like electricity.

It's like being branded all over again, only there's nothing in her mind except for Odin and their bond, and Snow and their bond.

Then Odin places his palm over the mark he just drew, and everything is blazing blue-white heat.

* * *

_Lady. I await your call to arms._

The words rumble and roll like a distant thunderclap, make her feel safe for the first time in longer than she can remember. Lighting is comfortable. Her body is warm, which is a rare enough occurrence lately, that even her sluggish, semi-conscious mind marks it as noteworthy.

She smells something foul. It's a familiar chemical smell, and it's giving her a headache. Some part of her brain is raising every red flag it can to warn her that she needs to seek the source of the smell immediately.

She thinks of airships, shuttles, and motorcycles. And piles and piles of corpses.

Something brushes her hair off her face, tucks it behind her ear, and everything floods back. Leaving home. The blizzard. Heavy ordnance. Sazh. Hope. The camp. The women.

Snow.

Dead, then alive but dying.

Odin

She bolts upright, poised to attack anyone daring to put their hands on her. She's in the horror dungeon. When the hell did she get here? She must have blacked out and left Snow in the final moments of his life. She can't—! _How—? S_ he sobs. The last thing she remembers, Snow was —

"Light?"

Her brain stops, trips over itself in its effort to do a 180, and there he is, sitting against the wall and staring up at her.

The sound that tears its way out of her feels like birth and dying. It's relief, and horror, and joy, and rage, and wounded animal, straight from the lizard part of herself. She drops to her knees before Snow and cups his face in her hands. _Gentle, gentle, Lightning._ He closes his eyes when she touches him. "Snow!"

She kisses him.

His lips are dry and cracked, and taste of blood when her tongue touches them, slips past them to trace the inside of his bottom lip, then top. Somehow, there's no blood to taste under his tongue, but the breath he sighs into her mouth is still laced through.

But it's better.

He's alive! Not just gasping for air like a beached fish, but actually _alive_ , and she can't figure out how, but she doesn't actually care either. Maybe that asshole absentee landlord finally did something useful, after all.

Who cares! He's alive. She doesn't care if Barthandelus himself is responsible for healing Snow.

Snow is alive, and whole, hands cupping her face, giving as good as he gets in this kiss, and she wants to cling to him for eternity but she just. Can't. They're in a _goddamn_ torture dungeon.

_For Fuck Sake!_

She breaks away from him and he pants, "Wow. That was different." She huffs a laugh and sits back.

What was she thinking?

 _I wasn't,_ she admits. She's unmoored, running on grief, terror, desperation and heartbreak, and she can't figure out how to get her bearings again.

Snow hauls her back in with the hands still on her cheeks and kisses her again, soft and sweet. She knows she shouldn't let him – it's only going to make it harder on them both later – but every part of her heart and mind are still back in that dark pit, clinging to him as he gasped his last breaths.

 _Screw it!_ She'll worry about it later. There's still a better than average chance that they'll die in this camp, and she's not going to spend what might be the last few hours of their lives hurting both of them.

When he breaks the kiss, he keeps his hold on her, refusing to let her back away. His eyes flicker over her face, studying her in silence before asking, "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

"What?" Did they hurt _her_? She's not the one who was dead, then mostly dead, then nearly dead again a few minutes ago. It's a ridiculous question.

He brushes his thumb under her eye – tracing her bruised face, she realizes – and waits for her to meet his eyes again. Then, voice soft but serious as a heart attack: "Did they _hurt you_?"

_Oh._

"No." He huffs out a breath as big as him, closes his eyes and presses his forehead to hers for a moment. "They didn't hurt anything that won't heal in a couple of days."

"When I heard your voice, here of all places, I just—"

"I'm okay," she promises.

There's no time for this now. It has to wait. She'd love nothing more than to sit here with him, put her head on his chest and her fingers against his throat, reassure herself by listening to him breathe, and counting the steady beats of his amazing heart, while he finds his bearings. But they're on very strict time limit, and Lightning has no clue how much time she has left before Sazh blows this whole place to hell.

_No pressure._

"Come on, let's get you up," she says.

"Great. Can't wait," Snow mumbles. He lets one hand fall to her shoulder, while the other presses against the wall. "This is gonna suck," he says, and she can't help but agree.

"Alright, just hang on a second." She repositions herself, braces her body so she can bear his weight up. "Okay, just let me do the heavy lifting here, alright, Hero?"

"…That your way of calling me fat?" Snow asks with a chuckle. Lightning snorts, then feels her face heat at the humiliating sound he's managed to surprise out of her. Snow's smile is all teeth and amusement, but the look in his eyes is soft, and so fond, that Lightning gives into her urge to kiss him again. He looks startled as she moves in, but Snow has always adapted to accommodate her on the battlefield, and it seems like it's a comprehensive skill set.

"Come on, Fatass," she whispers against his lips. Then: "up you come," as she manhandles him off the floor. They're both panting and sweaty by the time she leverages him upright. Snow certainly isn't fat, but at nearly six and half feet of solid muscle, he's no lightweight either.

"That my coat?" Snow makes to bend for the coat but Lightning stops him, and presses him against the wall. "How the hell did that get here?"

_/Odin/_

"Who cares?" Lightning replies. She's not willing to look a gift horse (or a horse bearing gifts, in this case) in the mouth. Snow's worst injuries may be healed, but he's still clammy and too pale, and so bruised that it hurts Lightning just to look at him. She retrieves the coat and hat from the floor. "Here, just put this on, now."

She pulls the hat on over his hair, and he cocks his head at her with a smirk; she wrestles him into his coat and buttons it all the way up. She knows that he prefers to leave the top buttons open, but his skin is too cold, and his shirt is little more than blood-crusted tatters. She can't look at it anymore without remembering the total devastation that had been there only minutes earlier. Besides, it's still freezing out, and between the blood loss and the remnants of shock, he would succumb to exposure in under thirty minutes without his coat. Probably much less. She takes a moment to thank—

_/Odin/_

—whomever or whatever returned it to them, and just hopes it was her Eidolon and not that asshole absentee landlord of a Maker. She's not interested in mending fences with that one just yet.

She smooths the coat down, and Snow is breathless when he says, "I love it when you get all handsy, Light. You can manhandle me anytime."

She huffs as she stands straight again and looks into his smirking face. "Shut up," she commands.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, before surprising her by grabbing her face in both hands and kissing her for all he's worth.

He still tastes like blood, but he's alive, and his heartbeat is slow and steady, and his chest is solid and strong beneath her hands. There's no more blood misting out of him with each breath, and she wishes she could stand here and enjoy this small proof of life, but—

She pulls away, and they're both breathless this time. He hums out an 'mmm,' wets his lips, and gives her a warm smile. "I could get used to that," he declares, and her heart lurches and her stomach twists. He pushes off of the wall and says: "Alright. Time to go. Ladies first."

* * *

'Ladies first' may have been a bit overly optimistic. Snow stumbles on the first step away from the wall, right arm curled across his stomach, and hand pressed bloodless against his rib cage. Lightning pulls his left arm across her shoulders, hangs onto his wrist with one hand, uses the hand and arm around his back to help support his ribs, and the two of them navigate the horrors of the dungeon together.

Snow curses under his breath as they walk into the second room and he says, "Please tell me that you weren't chained up in here."

She shakes her head and he huffs out a relieved breath. He whispers, "This place…" but never finishes the thought.

There's no need. This place, indeed.

All the survivors are in the first room. It turns out, Lightning had only been gone for a half hour, no matter how much it felt like nearly a decade.

When the women see them they all stand up. They've all spent their time preparing for the escape. The healthier prisoners help the weaker ones. They've moved the dead to one corner, covered their faces in some attempt at providing dignity. They've apparently all put as many layers on as possible, and Lightning doesn't want to think about where they got the clothing. She refuses to judge anyone. This is about survival now, and they don't have the luxury of being precious. The dead don't need warm clothes.

Viola looks nervous as she approaches Lightning, though Lightning can't imagine why. "Hi," she says to Snow. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good," Snow lies. "Well, better anyway."

"I'm glad," Viola says. "Light was—"

"Viola, this is Snow," Lightning interrupts. Neither she nor Snow need an instant replay of her horror at finding him.

"Hi," she repeats. Then says to Lightning, "I'm sorry, I ran away before, Light. I didn't—"

"You were in there?" Snow asks, looking horrified. He pins Lightning with an almost accusatory glare. "Are you all right?"

"I-I'm okay. I just…I was scared."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of. And if you're scared, you run. That's smart. That's what you do."

This. Man.

"It's fine, Viola," Lightning says. "Snow's right. There's no shame in running." The girl looks like she doesn't believe Lightning, but that she really wants to.

_Good enough._

"Where's your friend? The… _big_ …guy?" She makes vague hand gestures encompassing 'big.' "You know? _Big guy_? Big sword. Quiet."

"Bigger than me?" Snow asks.

"Much." She looks terrified, but curious. It's a look Lightning saw often on Hope's face during their time as l'Cie. "Like, twice your size or more. I don't know what he did, but you weren't getting off that floor. And he did something to the two of you. And now here you are."

Snow looks at Lightning and says, "Guess we know who healed me up."

Lightning nods. She's still confused as to how she managed to summon her Eidolon, but she can't keep the reverence from her voice when she says: "Odin."

"Looks like I owe him," Snow says. Then: "Why does that not seem great?"

"I don't know. Maybe because you call him 'creepy' all the time?"

"He is creepy," Snow declares. Then casts a guilty look around the room, like Odin might actually be a ghost just haunting the joint. "Uh, no offense, big guy. Wherever you are. Ya creep."

"Don't worry about it, Snow. I don't think he cares what you think about him."

"I'm not sure if I should be offended right now," Snow jokes. "What's wrong with me?"

"Such a good question."

"Ha Ha, you're hilarious, Light," he says, in the driest tone possible.

When they reach the group one of the women stuns Lightning stupid by saying, "Oh, thank the gods, you're alive!"

"What?"

"Not you," Viola whispers. "Him."

That makes even less sense to Lightning. "What?"

"Yeah, thanks. I'm okay," Snow says, clearly wanting that to be the end of the conversation.

"I can't believe it. I thought for sure they'd killed you." The woman starts sobbing.

"Oh, no. Please don't cry. Please. _I'm begging you_ ," Snow says, with rising panic. "I hate when women cry."

"I know you do," Lightning consoles, but she doesn't understand any of this. Moreover, she's sure she doesn't want to know right now. Or, probably ever.

"Is he yours?" one of the women asks Lightning.

"What?" She has no idea how to even begin to answer such a loaded question. She can feel Snow's eyes boring into her, waiting for her answer.

"They thought he was one of ours," the woman continues. "And they made us watch, and tried to force him to tell them which one of us was his."

Lightning can't look at Snow. She wishes this woman would shut up, and at the same time, needs to hear the rest. She knows she'll never ask Snow what they did to him. He's so wounded, that she can't imagine asking him to relive this nightmare. Snow has his forehead pressed to her temple, eyes closed, as if trying to hide from the recounting of the story.

"He wouldn't name anyone. They told him to just pick one if none of us were his. He didn't."

"Never," Snow whispers to himself. Lightning only catches the word because he's so close to her.

"'Never,' he yelled," she continues. "I can't believe you're still alive. The things they did—"

Lightning needs her to _shut up now,_ or she's going to lose her mind.

"I'm okay, thanks," Snow says, and Lightning can hear and feel the panic rising. "I'm really okay." But he's not okay. He wasn't okay, and none of them will ever be okay, ever again.

"Most men would have done what they asked." She can feel Snow shake his head once in denial, but the denial is unnecessary. Lightning knows Snow would never give into such demands, no matter the cost to himself. And the cost was steep, indeed. She'd seen the wreckage of his body, after all.

"Thank you, for trying to help us."

"Please don't thank me!" Lightning needs to end this nightmare before Snow loses what little grip he has on himself and the situation. For all Snow's bluster about heroics, he's never taken praise well, nor accepted gratitude at all. One of the first things Lightning learned about Snow was that his bluster was bullshit.

He doesn't believe himself to be a hero, which is, of course, why he is one. He's a hero in every fiber of his being. It's why his failures weigh so heavily, cut so deep. He takes everything to heart; every life lost is another person he didn't save. It's absurd, and it drives Lightning _crazy._

One of the women walks over and is reaching out to touch Snow, and that's something that Lightning just cannot tolerate. Not right now, when he's on the ragged edge. Snow's bluster may be bullshit, but his pride isn't, and he deserves the space and respect to keep it.

"I have a plan," Lightning declares, derailing the conversation about what they all witnessed the monsters do to Snow. "We're all getting out of here."

There's a quiet murmur through the group. Excited. Scared. Relieved.

"I have a question before you divulge the big plan, Light," Snow says, straightening up. "Where'd you get the rifle?" He pokes the rifle hanging off her back.

"It doesn't matter," she declares, not interested in thinking about the dead man right above their heads. That's one story she has no desire to relive, or ever share with anyone.

" _Oh_ , I hate that answer," he says, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes. "That means it definitely matters."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Lightning sits on the ground, picking at the cast on her arm, willing the tape to lift up despite it now being crusted in dried blood. Snow stares at her from a few feet away, radiating concern. The women have all made their way up the stairs, and Lightning had asked Snow to join them. He flat out refused to leave her alone down here in the dungeon, and she didn't have the stomach to argue.

It's not like she wants to be down here. She just can't do this up there with Jace's body on the floor where she'd bashed his brains in. Plus, she doesn't want to have that conversation with Snow.

Preferably ever.

Her hands are shaking; adrenaline, or terror, or nervous energy, or some combination of any or all of them has hysteria and panic bubbling inside her, and, much like a shaken up bottle of warm Champagne, she's about ready to blow her top and spray her emotions all over everything.

"This isn't working," she huffs, frustrated beyond all reason. She needs to get into this cast. Now! She pulls her shiv.

"What are you doing?" Snow asks, sounding panicked, grabbing for the shiv. She snatches her hand back and slips the shaking tip of the shiv into the cast.

"I'm cutting through the tape to get at what I need."

"May I? Please?" Snow asks and grabs her hand without waiting for an answer. She huffs, and he blows out a relieved breath. He doesn't mention her shaking hands, and for that, she's infinitely grateful. His hands are steady, his breathing calm, and she tries to match his slow, deep breaths.

She watches his long fingers scratch off the dried blood and thinks that he's way too calm about the fact that they're both covered in a layer of his blood. She recognizes that he's likely in shock, but there's nothing either of them can do about it until they get out of this slaughterhouse. So, she stays quiet and watches as Snow coaxes a corner of the tape up and then peels it away, slowly unwrapping and peeling off the bloodied top layer off the cast, balling it up and pitching it into a corner, before starting on the next layer.

"Here, if you need the knife—"

"Nope." He glances up at her and flashes her one of his crooked grins before resuming what he's doing. "You hang onto that," he says, using the calm, even tone he uses when speaking to small children. "I don't need it. Besides, knives are your thing, right?" The next layer is easier to peel away. His patience _amazes_ her; _he_ amazes her. How is he not as wound up as she is right now? "I just couldn't watch you cut into your own hand to get at whatever candy surprise you have in here."

As solicitations go, it's not exactly subtle, but there's no reason not to tell him. "It's Detacord."

"It's what now?" His brow furrows, but he doesn't look up or stop what he's doing. Another layer comes off, and the next layer looks cleaner. Almost like the whole nightmare in the pit never happened.

"Detonating Cord," she clarifies. The hand holding her wrist tightens to an almost painful degree, before relaxing again. He mumbles a quiet 'sorry' at her, rubbing his thumb back and forth in a soothing gesture. She finishes: "It's explosives."

Snow stops what he's doing and stares at her, eyes round, eyebrows somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline. "Sazh packed your cast full of _explosives_?"

"Yeah." _What's the problem?_ "And the detonators, too. And there's another shiv in there."

"Uh huh." He nods to himself. "I didn't realize Sazh was completely insane." He resumes his work, now taking even more care as he unwraps. He mumbles, "Now I know."

"The shiv is very sharp. Just be careful not to cut yourself."

"Says the woman with a bomb strapped to her wrist."

_Wait. Is he mad?_

"It's not armed." _What's his problem?_ "The detonators aren't attached yet. That's why I need to get everything out. So I can arm the bomb!"

"Great. An unarmed bomb strapped to your wrist. I feel so much better now that I know you're running around with an _unarmed bomb_ strapped to your body." He sighs and pulls out the shiv, shakes his head before handing it off to her and keeps peeling. "When we're out of this hell-hole, we are having _words_ about all of this, Light."

"And won't that be fun!?" She can't think of anything she'd like to do less than argue with Snow about any of this. She decides to try and bring the subject back to the escape plan. "I set up a bunch of small bombs around the camp as a distraction. All are concentrated in the front so the hostages can slip out the back of the camp. There's a—"

"I saw it." He withdraws a bullet detonator, stares at it then pins her with a look that just screams 'seriously?' before resuming his treasure hunt. "The shadow under the cliffs. I half expected sniper fire from up there, but…nothing." She stares at him, remembering why she and he make such an amazing team. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing," she says as he hands off another two detonators and a piece of the cord. "So, yeah, the shadow. That's where I figured we could cut through the fence," she retrieves the second shiv from the floor beside her, and locks the two together into shears. Sazh is a fucking genius. "Then slip out and follow the cliffs until we reached the Northern most entrance to Mah'Habara. We can wait for pick up there."

"Yeah," he pulls out the last bit of cord, "think that's it," he says, and starts smoothing the tape back down to put her cast back together again. "That makes sense but—"

"But I need to take out the garage first." Snow stops what he's doing, and stares at her with wide eyes. He's shaking his head 'no' as she says: "Which is why you're going to lead everyone out as I wire up the Skytank and blow it to hell."

"You're insane if you think I'm leaving you behind in this camp!" Snow says, completely irate. " _No_. That's not happening."

"Snow—"

" _No!"_ He shouts. "It's not happening, Light. This place….no." He's shaking his head, talking faster. Panicking. "No! It's too much. No. I'm not…I'm not leaving here with you still in it. No!"

"I'm not going to be alone," she insists.

"Oh, right! You'll have Sazh's bombs and your creepy Eidolon here with you, too. Great! I feel much better!"

"This is ridiculous," she fires back, knows immediately it was the exact wrong thing to say to him.

"You're right! It _is_ ridiculous. The idea that I would leave you behind in this camp full of sadistic rapists and murderers _is_ ridiculous!" He throws a quick glance at the trap door, and lowers his voice, clearly not wanting to upset the women upstairs. "It's not happening. Think of another plan!"

"There is no other plan," she says. This makes perfect sense. She's armed. She'll sneak out the front, set the bomb, and be right behind him. If anything goes wrong, she has a rifle and Odin. She's done more with less, and he knows it.

He's shaking his head, fists clenched, grinding his teeth so hard she half expects them to fracture under the pressure.

"Call that creepy-ass Eidolon right now!"

" _What?"_

" _No,"_ he declares. It's like a record skipping, the needle just not able to find the groove that allows it to play the rest of the song. "If I'm leaving you behind with this creepy Eidolon as your only backup, I want to see him!"

"That's not how it works! You know that's not how it works! He might just kill you if I just randomly call him because you're aggravating me!"

" _Good!_ If I'm dead, then I don't have to leave this camp knowing you're still in it!"

"Don't even joke about that!"

"Who's joking?" He drops his head into his hands, yanks off his hat and hurls it across the room. She watches it sail away, astonished by his anger. "Call him. Now!"

Lightning leans forward and takes Snow's hands into hers.

"Snow—"

He pulls his hands away from her and holds them up in a warding gesture. "Forget it! Either you're insane, or your opinion of me is lower than I ever dreamed—"

"What—"?

"—whichever it is, I don't care. I'm not leaving here with you still in this camp. _NO!_ "

"Snow—"

"Stop using the voice," he accuses. Then points at her. "And the eyes." Then lifts his hands and holds them up and away. "And the hands. _Stop!_ "

"Snow—"

"I'd do anything for you, Lightning," he says, like it's the simplest truth in the world; like it's not a devastating declaration of devotion. He may as well have gut punched her. " _Anything!_ You know that. When that woman asked if I was yours? The answer to that is _yes_. But you can't ask me to do this. You don't understand. You can't know. _I don't want you to know._ Do you understand what I'm saying to you? I _can't_ leave you here. Don't ask me to do it. Figure out another plan. _Please._ Don't ask me to leave you in this place."

Sometime during his diatribe, Snow shifted to his knees before her, took both of her hands in his and pulled them to his chest, and Lightning realizes that he's literally on his knees begging her. Every warning siren in Lightning's head is blaring. Nothing about this is normal, or okay.

Snow is always overprotective, and he often expresses it as anger. He puffs up, blows his top, they go over the plan again, adjust if necessary, and he concedes. He hates when any of them take what he considers unnecessary risks – that's his job, according to him – but he always comes around in the end. It's not that she doesn't understand that Snow's angry outbursts are expressions of fear and concern; it's just that she's used to those. He gets angry. They argue. They agree. The end.

This isn't that. It's desperation with a side of horror, and she absolutely cannot deny him.

"Okay." He sags in relief and presses his forehead against hers. She cups his cheek and waits, letting him pull himself together. He's trembling all over. Terrified, she realizes, and Lightning wants nothing more than to murder every one of the monsters in this place for doing this to him.

"Thank you," he whispers, and exhales a shaky breath.

They have a big problem now, though. She's agreed to his request because she simply couldn't do otherwise. Snow is so…raw, and hurt, and damaged right now, that she can't imagine doing anything to make it worse. And the truth is that Snow may be overprotective, but he knows goddamn well how good she is, just as she knows how good he is. The two of them make an excellent team because they each trust the other to do their part, and both are able to adapt to the other's needs in combat. No talking required.

The closest she's ever come to that kind of symbiosis is with Odin, and he's an immortal, magical Esper sworn to be her Eidolon and aid her in her struggles. Those are some big shoes to fill, but Snow is nothing if not dedicated.

So if he's asking her not to do this, it's because he _needs_ it. And what sort of partner – what sort of friend – would she be if she disregarded his needs?

Snow may be a sappy romantic, but that's got nothing to do with battle strategy. So yeah, whatever feelings Snow has for her, they're not new, and he's never allowed them to interfere with their strategies and tactics in battle. Romantic or not, Snow is a Warrior, nose to toes, top to bottom, inside and out, full stop. He's her partner on the battlefield, and trusts her to take care of herself and him. She knows that.

So, when tells her he can't do something, he can't. It's not hyperbole. He wouldn't risk their lives, and the lives of the hostages, over simple sentiment. She understands because, if the situation were reversed, she couldn't leave him here either. Not after what they did to him…

She made some promises to herself while he was gasping out his final few breaths, and right now, she's considering which ones she might want to keep tonight. Someone needs to pay for the way Snow trembles against her; every shuddering breath he exhales against her neck just piles on exponential levels of interest.

She and Odin are going to extract repayment in blood and pain. They'll blow this place right into the next life, and then anyone unlucky enough to survive, is going to get a Good Night kiss from Zantetsuken or her Edged Carbine.

Of course, that's the fly in the ointment, isn't it? The bombs. Now that she's thrown out the only plan they have, she needs to figure something else out quick because: "We don't have much time to come up with another plan."

Snow pulls away, but doesn't go far. He takes her hand off his face and kisses it, then sits back down. He's steadier now; more like himself. "Why not?"

"Because I asked for a day, and there's maybe six hours left, I think."

"I know I'm going to hate this, and really regret asking: six hours until what?"

He _is_ going to hate this. She wanted to leave this part out entirely, because it wasn't relevant when they'd had a plan that was going to get them out of here with hours to spare. But now….

"Sazh is going to bomb the place."

Snow looks like he's waiting for the rest of the answer. When it finally clicks, he says, "Wait! Are you saying Sazh is going to blow up the camp _while we're still in it?_ "

"To be fair, you weren't supposed to be here, Snow." Whatever fear lurked behind Snow's eyes is subsumed by a tidal wave of outrage.

'Oh! So, he was just going to blow up the camp while _you_ were in it? I feel much better now!" He stands up and starts pacing. "You know, I said earlier that I didn't realize Sazh was insane? That was a joke. I'm not joking anymore. The fact that he's willing to blow this place up whether you're in it or not—"

"I told him to do it."

"And how is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"If I couldn't get out, I wouldn't want to be trapped here." Snow's face turns beet red, which can't be good for him. He lost too much blood, and she's still worried about the damage she knows his heart sustained. He looks like he's going to explode.

"I can't believe you came into this camp alone, with no back up—"

" _Excuse me?"_

"Don't even!" he warns, pointing at her. "I didn't just…hand myself to them. I didn't know what was going on at first, and when I figured it out. When I saw…" he stops, shakes his head. "I thought…" he puts his face in his hands and blows out a shaky breath. "I thought you were in here."

And there it is.

She's not surprised; just shattered.

"I thought you were in here, and I couldn't…" he stops, then pins her with his gaze. _"I couldn't."_ He starts pacing again, and she's afraid he's going to fall over. "Anyone can get got, Light. All it takes is one bad day. No. One bad moment. You know that!" She does. "One of them got a lucky shot off. They clipped me." Oh, God. _They'd shot him_. She didn't even notice the bullet wound. She feels tears burn her eyes, but she can't start crying now. This isn't about her feelings, after all. "They got a lucky shot in, and then piled on me when I was hit. A couple of minutes, and it was all over. Drop the curtain; goodnight, nurse." He stops moving but doesn't look at her when he says, "The only reason they didn't kill me right then is because they like to play with their food."

" _For Fuck Sake, Snow—"_

"What? Think I'm kidding? Ask them. They had front row seats," he points to the room above them. "Or better yet, don't! Just trust me."

"I do trust you!"

"Could've fooled me," he mumbles, then shakes his head.

"Look, there weren't a lot of options, Snow." He barks out a bitter laugh, but says nothing. "Sazh didn't want to risk me coming in. He just wanted to bomb the place and neutralize the threat." Snow covers his face with both hands at that. "Hope wanted to come in with me. Threatened to follow me in."

Snow whips around, goes so pale she's worried that he's going to pass out. _"NO!"_

"Of course, 'no'," she consoles. "But that's my point. This _is_ my back up. They trust me to do my part—"

"The fact that you think this is about me not trusting you is just beyond—"

"No! That's not what I mean. I mean, I came in here to get these women out, like you. I had only a vague plan, like you. Unlike you, I had a fail state contingency. That's all it is. I didn't want to be stuck here if—"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up." He sits on the floor and drops his head between his knees.

"I'm sorry, Snow." She rests her hand on his back, feels the tremors beneath his skin. "I'm so sorry."

She waits him out, lets him get control of his breathing. He rubs his forehead, then drags his fingers through his tangled, matted hair. She hears hairs tearing and she takes his hands in hers to stop the self-destructive behavior. He looks at their hands for a moment, then meets her eyes.

He looks like he's reached a decision. Lightning can't help but worry that she's going to hate it.

"We're going to get out of here," he whispers, lifting her right hand to his lips. He kisses the healing fracture in an echo of the night that started this whole mess. "And then you and I are going to have _words_ about this plan of yours. All of it. From the bomb in your cast, to the countdown clock on your ass." He drops her hands, and pulls himself up off the floor again. "But for now, just...let's do it."

"Wait—"

"I already know that you're going to make me leave you here. I don't know why I even bothered."

" _Snow—!"_

"No. It is what it is." He marches over and retrieves his hat. "Let's just get the fuck out of this place."

"I don't want to fight with you about this."

"Yeah. We never want to fight, Light, but it's all we ever do. Somehow." She wants to argue the point, which, of course, would only prove his point. "You're right. Someone needs to lead the hostages out. Someone needs to set a distraction, and we need to neutralize that tank, or we're going nowhere. I'm in no shape to do that." The admission costs him, and she feels sick. Lightning likes to win, and usually gets her way with Snow, but _not like this._ "Even if I were, that wouldn't be my bag. We both know that of the two of us, you're faster, lighter on your feet. I'm better equipped to protect the hostages. That's who we are. Let's just do it."

He turns away from her and climbs out of the darkness, leaving her behind.

* * *

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Note:Did you notice where I smashed the fourth wall? Yes/No?  
> Detonating Cord is real, and is actually really what I had Sazh pack her cast with way back in Chapter 8. Here's what it is:
> 
> Detonating Cord: In fuse. Detonating cord, also called Cordeau and Primacord, is a hollow cord filled with an explosive material. It is fired by a detonator and is capable of initiating the detonation of certain other explosives at any number of points and in any desired pattern.
> 
> Detonating cord is a thin, flexible plastic tube usually filled with pentaerythritol tetranitrate. With the PETN exploding at a rate of approximately 6400 m/s, any common length of detonation cord appears to explode instantaneously
> 
> Remember that Sazh and Bartholomew are working together to build a world. Well, detonator cords are used in controlled demolition, or in quarries, etc. That's where the idea came from.
> 
> The next chapter should be the big showdown. Then there's the payoff chapter to come, sit tight. So, it's one or two chapters, then the finish. I didn't expect to actually get this far in a week, and I doubt I'll be able to tear through three more chapters in another week. I may split the next chapter in half. We'll see.
> 
> If you like it, let me know. If you don't like it, let me know.


	13. Time to Murder and Create Part I: Decisions and Revisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time and Murder and Create. That pretty much is the summary of the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admission: Snow owns my soul. I don't own Final Fantasy. The plot of this story is mine. The players belong to Square Enix.
> 
> Dajh can't read this chapter. It's got too many naughty words. The rating in this chapter is for Snow's potty-mouth. I think he's earned the right to drop some F-bombs, though.

* * *

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats."

**H. L. Mencken**

_**Chapter 13  
** _ _**Time to Murder and Create** _  
_**Part I: Decisions and Revisions** _

_**Time to Launch:** _   
_**T minus 12 hours** _   
_**Location: Sazh's workshop, New Eden** _

If someone had asked Hope yesterday what the longest day of his life had been, he'd have answered 'the day of the Purge,' without question. That day changed Hope's entire life: his mother died, he'd met Snow, then Vanille, and, by the end of the day, Lightning and Sazh, before he ended up at exactly the right/wrong place at exactly the right/wrong time to be branded by a fal'Cie, and swept up into a plot to destroy humankind once and for all.

As days go, that was a long one.

As he waits for the sunset to herald the launch of the attack, Hope thinks today may just top that terrible day as the longest one of his young life.

On the other hand, Sazh seems to think there are far too few hours in this eternally long day. Hope has spent the past hour watching Sazh replot the flight plan, reprogram the bombs at least twice, and tinker with the prototype drone.

"So, how are we going to know when it's time to pick up Light?"

Sazh doesn't look up from his notes; instead, he reaches for a small, rectangular box on his desk and turns it to face Hope. Hope sees the numbers ticking down, **11:58:47, 11:58:46, 11:58:45** , and understands that this is what Sazh has not-so-lovingly dubbed the 'Doomsday Clock.' There's a sign and everything.

_Wait a minute…_

Hope notices a line through the center of the 'D' that looks like it was drawn in crayon, and realizes that the sign now appears to read 'Boomsday Clock.' Hope cracks up, and Sazh gives him the stink eye. "Have you lost your damn mind, Kid? What's so funny?"

"Boomsday Clock? Please tell me that this is _Operation Boomsday_!" Hope laughs at the ridiculous name, made even more ridiculous by the fact that a six year old came up with it. Hope laughs even harder at the look on Sazh's face. He looks annoyed at first, but his brow unfurls, and his lips arrange themselves into a smirk that would be more at home on Snow's face.

"…It is now," Sazh replies, then lets out a devious chuckle: "And I can't wait to see the Soldier's face when she realizes that she has to say, 'Operation Boomsday' out loud." He turns back to his work muttering, "Serve her right for worrying this old man. Crazy woman!"

Hope starts going over the blueprints and maps, finds one of the cliffs north of Mah'Habara with two different markings on it.

"What's this?"

Sazh glances up then back at the drone he's working on. "That's a map."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Don't you sass me, Kid! I'll recreate your birth through that window," Sazh harrumphs. "The red 'X' is the Snow Kat. The other 'X' is where the Soldier approximated the camp to be. Because it's only an approximation, I need to get eyes on the target, which is why I can't just 'set it and forget it' with the flight protocols on these drones. I need them to be reactive to my controls."

"Can I help?"

"Don't think so right now. But maybe. You can hang out and watch, if you want. Maybe I'll think of something you can help with." Hope resents being treated like a useless kid, but pushes the irritation away. Sazh never treats him like he's useless. He always listens to Hope and considers his input. The fact that he doesn't have anything for Hope to do right now isn't his fault.

"How do you know where the Snow Kat is?" Hope asks, curious about where they got all their Intel from. "Are you sure of these coordinates?"

"Yep. The Soldier left her communicator in it."

Hope panics. _Wait, but how will she contact us?_

Sazh continues, oblivious to Hope's concerns. "I haven't had a chance to install a locator yet, and she wasn't risking her communicator falling into the hands of these monsters. Especially once she found out they all double as locators." Sazh looks up and points at the terminal: "See that screen over there?"

Hope walks over to the terminal at Sazh's desk, comparing the signal location to the coordinates on the map. Perfect match, of course. Sazh is nothing if not a perfectionist about this stuff.

Hope notices something flashing at the corner of the screen, and he backs out of the map, widens the field of view and suddenly, there's another marker on the map, only a few kilometers from the Snow Kat. Approximately where Sazh has the target marked on his map.

"Sazh, can you come here for a minute?"

"What's the problem?" He asks, not getting up but looking away from his work.

"There's something I want you to look at here." Hope hears Sazh get up, feels him when he leans in beside him. "What's that?" Hope asks, unnecessarily.

Sazh stares at the screen, then shoves Hope aside so he can sit down at the terminal. Hope doesn't like the way Sazh is frowning at the screen. The furrow in his brow is worrisome, and Hope shifts from foot to foot to bleed off some of his rising anxiety.

Sazh taps keys, shaking his head. He finally says, "Can't be. It's gotta be an error of some kind. A ghost in the machine."

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like the Hero is sitting in the middle of that camp. That's what it looks like. But that can't be. You just spoke to him a day and a half ago, and he was at home. No way he made it from Oerba to the far side of Mah'Habara on foot in less than 36 hours, and there's no way he flew, because I didn't fly him anywhere."

Something about what Sazh just said sets Hope's teeth on edge. Anxiety starts churning in his gut, fluttering around like butterflies and making him wish he could sit down again.

"He was at home, right, Hope?" Sazh stares at him expectantly.

Was he at home? Did Snow say he was home when he spoke with him?

"He didn't say he was home," Hope concedes. And then remembers how difficult it was to hear Snow at all. "And you know, there was a lot of noise on the line."

"Noise?"

"Yeah, I could barely hear him," Hope admits. Hope remembers wondering if Snow was in a wind tunnel. Snow had refused to tell him what the noise was.

"Well, that's not good," Sazh says.

"Should we call him?" Hope really wants to make sure that Snow is okay. And tell him he's a jerk for not telling Hope where he was when he called, making him worry about him.

"Nope," Sazh says. "Either there's a glitch in the software, which means we'll just panic him for nothing, or…"

"Or?" Hope prompts, already anticipating the answer.

" _Or,_ calling him might give away his position."

"You think he's in that camp, don't you?"

"I don't know what to think, Hope. But that don't mean we just do things without thinkin' 'em through? We'll leave that nonsense to the Soldier and Hero, _thank you very much._ "

* * *

**_T minus 11 hours_ **

Hope is still not sure he likes Sazh's decision to call Serah instead of Snow, but Sazh doesn't much seem to care what Hope thinks about this particular topic. He's not calling Snow, but he wants information about Snow's whereabouts. Hopefully, Snow will be home with Serah when Sazh calls, and this whole mess will just be one big misunderstanding.

Hope isn't particularly good at lying to himself, it seems.

Sazh stands with his communicator to his ear, facing away from Hope, but not forcing Hope to leave the room. Hope is infinitely grateful for this fact. Too many of his older friends treat Hope like a child, always trying to shield him from the world. It's irritating. Hope was just as involved in everything last year as they all were.

"Hey, Serah…" Sazh pauses, allowing Serah to respond. Hope can hear her chattering away on the other end of the line, but can't make out the words. She sounds like a tiny, woodland mammal, chittering away somewhere in the distance.

Hope immediately feels bad for making the comparison.

"No, everything is fine. No news is good news. The soldier is still on her mission, but we'll be rendezvousing with her in 11 hours…"

"I sure will, I promise. First thing. I will dial you myself…"

"No need to thank me. Listen, Serah…Is the hero around?"

He puts his head in his hands. "He did now, huh? Well, I didn't speak with him. I'll have to ask Hope…"

"No, no, don't do that. If he's trying to make it across the Steppe, he may just be radio silent. It's not unusual. Wouldn't want to distract him…"

"Nah, I'm sure he's fine. The hero knows how to navigate the Steppe better than most. If he's gone silent, then he might just be passing a herd. Or, he could just be a dumbass..."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll let you know as soon as I speak with him. Okay?"

"You too. You take care of yourself, you hear me? Stay warm. Stay inside. Oh wait, Serah? Do me a favor. Call up one of those heroes-in-training, and have them stay with you for now. Okay? It's nasty out, and I don't like the idea of you bein' alone in this storm, okay? For me?"

"All right, now. You know I worry about you damn kids…"

"Naw, you don't have to do that!"

"Well…All right, then. I do love pie!"

"Every normal man loves pie, Serah. If that hero of yours doesn't love pie, it says a whole lot more about the hero than pie, that's for sure…"

"I always knew I liked you better than your sister or that dumbass of yours, just don't tell them I said that! I like my teeth just the way they are…"

"You too! Take care. Bye, now." Sazh disconnects the call and says, " _Goddamn it, Hero."_

"Snow doesn't like pie?" Hope has no idea why he says it, but there's something so bizarre about Sazh talking to Serah about pie when Snow is basically missing, and possibly a hostage in some terrorist camp.

"What? I mean, no. Apparently not. Are you surprised that the Hero's weird?" Sazh shakes his head though, and waves his hand back and forth in a dismissive gesture. "I mean, who cares? Hang the pie! That's not the point or the problem."

Hope knows that. He knows that pie has nothing to do with anything, but there's dread creeping in and spreading through his veins like poison. "What _is_ the problem?"

Sazh ignores Hope's question to ask another one: "Did the Hero mention to you that he was looking for the Soldier?"

"He asked if I'd heard from her." Hope feels dread pooling low in his belly. _Snow was already out looking for Light when he'd called? But that means…_

"That's not what I meant, and I'm pretty sure you know that," Sazh says, and Hope can hear the irritation and impatience laced through the words.

"No," Hope replies. "He didn't mention anything about himself at all."

Upon reflection, Hope realizes that Snow had been uncharacteristically tight-lipped and evasive. Snow isn't one to hide or dissemble on anything. When he wants something, he says so. When he's going somewhere, he says where. He shouts when he's angry, smiles when he's happy, jokes when he's in a good mood, and mopes when he's sad. He hits things that threaten him, and lets threats hit _him_ rather than any of his allies. Or anyone else.

Snow is honest about _everything_. But he wouldn't answer Hope's questions, and Hope had been too concerned about Lightning to even notice.

_Goddamn you, Snow. You better be okay, you jerk._

"Well, that's just wonderful," Sazh says with more biting sarcasm than Hope can remember him using over the past year.

"What do we do?" Hope asks.

"All right, hang on a minute. Just let me think," he says pressing his fingers into his closed eyes. He whispers, "Goddamn Hero. Goddamn soldier. _Goddamn it!_ "

If Snow crossed paths with this group of kidnapping murderers, there's no way he walked away from them. Snow doesn't know how to back down from a fight, even one he couldn't possibly win.

Hope has a bad feeling about all of this. What kind of mess did Snow get himself into?

"Alright, I got an idea," Sazh says. He walks across the room, opens a cabinet and starts rifling through it. Something goes flying past Hope's head as Sazh tosses odds and ends over his shoulder. "Come on. Where you at?" Sazh mutters to himself. "Ah, there you are! Help me with this thing, would you, Hope!?" Hope moves closer to Sazh, sees what he's wrestling with. It looks like the love child of a HAM radio, Cathode Ray Tube, Rabbit ear antenna, and old-school terminal.

It's about as heavy as an old CRTV, too, and leveraging it out of the cabinet and up onto the table is difficult work. "What the hell is this thing?"

"Watch your language!"

"Seriously?" Hope says. He cannot believe that he's still be scolded for cursing.

"Seriously. You're hurting my poor virgin ears," Sazh quips, and then snorts at the absurdity of his own comment. Sazh pulls a book out of his desk and sits down in front of the machine, flipping through pages.

Sazh starts spinning dials, flipping switches and clicking buttons, and typing random code into the _whose-a-ma-whats-it-thing-a-ma-jig_ (if Sazh won't tell him what it is, that's what Hope is going to call it!)

"Um…Sazh? Mind sharing with the rest of the class?" Sazh eyes Hope for a moment before flipping pages in his book again and mumbling a soft, "Aha!"

For a long moment, Hope is convinced that Sazh will just ignore him. Hope's outrage doubles every second that Sazh remains silent. "Sazh?"

"Yeah? Oh! Sorry! Distracted. What was your question? What am I doing? Okay, well, every one of these communicators has an individual identifier protocol." Hope nods. "That's what allows point to point dialing, allowing us to call individuals, and not just have one big party line."

 _Wait._ "What's a party line?"

"Never mind. Damn kids," He mumbles under his breath. "Anyway, that's the part of the communicator that was cannibalized from the old telecom networks on Cocoon."

"Right." Hope knows most of this because he helped Sazh build them, _thank you very much._

"Another part of the communicator is based on CB radio tech. Cocoon Band. Two-way radios that all pick up and broadcast on 40 channels around 27 Megahertz in the high frequency band."

"So?"

" _So_ , that means that, _theoretically_ , if I can tune into the Hero's individual protocol, and redirect it onto one of those channels, we'll basically be listening to everything happening on his end."

"You can do that?"

Sazh shrugs, but bobs his head a bit up and down and side to side at once as if to say, _'who knows?'_

"Maybe? It's not like I've done it. I didn't design 'em to work that way, but I know what tech I used, and it's sound in theory. We'll see, won't we?"

"Don't you have to hit a button to transmit on a two-way?"

"Yes. Technically. But the communicators are always broadcasting via the locator." Sazh keeps fiddling with dials on the monstrosity, and plugging in various numbers. "Like I said: it's not what I designed it to do. It's not something that I ever planned to do with it, and these communicators were always going to be upgraded as we built a more secure communication network. But we're the only ones who have them. There's only 10 total. Yours, mine. The hero's. Serah's, the soldier's, your dad's, one for those idiot puppies that follow the hero everywhere."

"That's seven."

"One for ' _The Oerban Lady.'" The Oerban Lady_ is Sazh's airship. Hope loves that ship, and can't wait until Sazh lets him pilot it.

"Eight."

Sazh looks sheepish, like Hope caught him doing something wrong. "I could lie, and say I made two extras, just in case. But, I made the other two for Fang and Vanille." Hope's gut twists at the mention of his lost friends.

He loves Sazh. Why couldn't his dad be like Sazh?

Hope feels bad for a minute, but figures everyone has idols they look up to. For Hope, that person is Sazh.

And Lightning.

_Not Snow._

Damn it. Jerk. He'd better be okay. Hope's never going to forgive him if he gets his stupid self killed.

_Please be okay, Snow._

"I know it's stupid. That they're gone and there's no reason to think they're coming back—"

"No. It's not stupid." Hope has to believe they'll come back. He has to. "I think it's great, Sazh."

"Anyway, it's not like everyone on Pulse has one. Most everyone is using line of sight radio communication, with Cocoon as the main antenna, and another on the top of the Tower. That covers the majority of all the settlements. These communicators were for us. Our family. So we could keep in touch. Remind each other that…"

He trails off, leaving the thought incomplete. Hope understands anyway.

"Okay, so what's the point of trying to tune into Snow's communicator?"

"Well, two reasons. First, I'd like ears in that camp. I don't like the fact that I have no way of knowing what's going on with the soldier, and no matter what she said, I don't want to bomb the place as she's fighting her way to freedom."

That makes sense. "And the other reason?"

"I want to know if the hero is dead." He says it like he's talking about the weather, and Hope feels the world tilt beneath him.

" _What?"_

"Look, Hope. If the Hero snuck in, there's a chance he's fine. If they caught him sneaking in – and let's face it, sneaking ain't the Hero's strong suit – then…I don't know. You've seen what they did to those people. The Soldier was right: she had a better than average chance of surviving capture, considering what they're doing. The Hero, though? He's not their type. Let's just leave it at that."

Hope feels like he might throw up. Sazh slowly turns a dial and a terrible screeching sound fills the room.

Hope claps his hands over his ears, and yells, "What the hell is that noise?"

Sazh stops…everything. It looks to Hope like he even stopped breathing. Then he's a whirlwind of motion, shoving out of his seat, stalking across the room to a cabinet and pulling out a familiar bottle and a glass. He pours a full glass of the amber colored liquor, takes a full mouthful, winces then pins Hope with a terrible look.

"What?"

Sazh marches over to Hope, grabs him by the arm, and manhandles him out the door.

" _What the hell_ , Sazh!" Hope tries protesting, but Sazh refuses to even look at him as he slams the door in his face.

"Sazh, what the—"

"Get out here, Kid."

"What's going on? What is that?"

_"Go. Away!"_

Hope presses his ear to the door, and hears the screeching change tenor, and there's something like – laughter? – coming over the airwaves. There's talking, but Hope can't hear what's being said, and then the terrible sound starts up again.

" _Sazh!"_ he yells through the door.

"I'm not kidding, Hope! _Get away from the door!"_

Hope refuses to leave, but stops trying to get back in. He sits with his back to the door, listening to the inhuman noises with a rising horror.

* * *

T minus 7 hours

Hope must have nodded off at some point. He wakes, still seated with his back pressed to the door of Sazh's workshop. It's quiet in the room now, and Hope waits for his friend to open the door.

Then there's the sounds of things crashing, breaking. Hope panics, banging on the door again and yelling for Sazh. Sazh rips it open. He looks terrible. His eyes are ringed in moisture, threaded through with red, and Hope boggles for a moment at the idea of Sazh crying in here.

"Are you okay?"

"Me? Oh, yeah, I'm fantastic. Why? Don't I look okay to you?" Hope hasn't heard Sazh this desolate since he lost Dajh last year. It's terrifying.

Hope spies the drone Sazh had been working on earlier in the day smashed in the corner. Hope walks over to it, bends to pick it up when Sazh says, "No! Leave it! I like it like that – _ruined_. It matches everything else on this forsaken planet."

Sazh stalks back to his seat at the table, where he's pushed aside all his blueprints, in favor of his pistols. It looks like Sazh has been in here this whole time just cleaning and upgrading his weapons. It's such a strange thought, not because Hope thinks that Sazh doesn't maintain his weapons, but because, unlike Lightning, who treats her weapon as an extension of herself, Sazh has always treated his guns as tools to be wielded at the appropriate time. While he's certain that Sazh would bring his pistols tonight, they would be an option of last resort. He might clean them, but upgrading them? Modifying them? He hasn't done that since before Cocoonfall.

Something is horribly wrong, and a nauseous anxiety nearly puts Hope on his ass right there.

Sazh has a big glass of Fang's rotgut – his word for it, not Fang's – and he sits back down, pulls his earphones back on, and applies himself to the task of polishing off his drink like it's his job.

Nothing makes sense. "What are you listening to?"

Sazh's chuckle is creeping darkness; it's hatred and murder and rage. "What do you think I'm listening to, kid?"

"I don't know," he answers, and it's almost a lie. He has an idea, but it's a truth too terrible to countenance. He'd prefer Sazh just tell him.

"Sure you do. You just don't want to know."

Hope yanks the headphone jack out of the machine, and the terrible sound fills the room again. It's different now, though. Stuttering, and shuddery, and wet. Then there's a laugh, and a way too familiar grunt, and Hope shivers.

" _Change your mind yet?"_

A too-wet cough, then: _"…get fucked,"_ a very familiar voice says, and Hope feels like he might just throw up.

" _Gimme the awl!"_

 _"No!"_ Hope yells.

Sazh plugs the jack back in as he says, "Yep."

" _That's Snow?"_ He knows it is, but somehow, he can't believe that the sounds he heard were coming out of his friend. Snow is stoic as hell. Sure, he's a loud blowhard, but Hope's seen him take hits that would turn anyone else into chum, and then turn around and say some stupid nonsense that always pissed Lightning and Hope off.

"Yep."

"What are they doing to him?"

Sazh laughs, but there's nothing of humor or Sazh in the sound. It's a sound that Hope would expect from Barthandelus, not his kindhearted friend. Sazh drains his glass, and pours two drinks this time and shoves one at Hope. "Here you go, Son. Don't tell your dad, okay?"

Hope sinks into the chair across from Sazh, palming the glass of liquor. "How can you listen to that?" He takes a sip of the drink, and gags on the taste.

_Gods, that's disgusting! How can anyone drink this sewage?_

"I'm bearing witness. I can't do anything else. I figure if he can endure it, I can at least bear witness to it."

"We have to help him!"

"There's not a thing on this accursed planet that can help him, son. It's over. Hero's done."

"Don't say that!"

"I've been listening to this for four hours! It's been going on for much longer than that," Sazh puts his face in his hands for a moment. Then he sits back up and says, "The kindest thing that anyone can do for him right now is put him out of his misery. That's exactly why they haven't done it yet. They'll make this last as long as possible." He drains his glass and pours another finger of the liquid heartburn, nurses this one a bit. "Joke's on them, though. They've only got" Sazh looks at the 'Boomsday Clock,' "Six hours and forty three minutes left with him. Then I get to end this and them."

A few more minutes pass in tense silence. Sazh 'bearing witness,' but outright refusing to allow Hope to do the same. Hope's not sure if he's angry or grateful. It's not as if Hope wants to listen to those men laugh as they make Snow scream, but he feels like a coward for leaving his friend to face his torment alone.

The idea of anyone hurting Snow for fun is beyond comprehension for Hope.

Hope thinks back to the day of the Purge. He'd chased Snow through Cocoon with murder on his mind. He was determined to avenge his mother's death by ending the arrogant, blond jerk who killed her.

Of course, Snow hadn't killed her. Oh, Snow believed he had: he blamed himself just as much as Hope had blamed him, and he'd been willing to accept whatever punishment Hope wanted to mete out to him. Hope was so close to killing Snow. He felt powerful and victorious as he stood above him with the knife.

Even at that moment, it wasn't about hurting Snow. He wanted to balance the scales. He didn't want to hear Snow's agonized screams. He wanted revenge, yes, and it was wrong. He was a grieving son who'd just watched his mother die. None of his motivations were rational, and Lightning had tried to explain to him that they were both wrong for blaming Snow for their grief. Hope refused to listen to her, and sought his revenge anyway.

But he couldn't do it. Snow didn't deserve Hope's anger or hatred. And he sure as hell couldn't possibly deserve the torment that was being inflicted on him by these murderous monsters.

Hope is torn from his thoughts when Sazh spits, "Forget it, _I'm done!_ " Sazh rips the headphones off and tosses them onto the table before him. Then he shoves his bastard love child contraption right off the table. It smashes on the floor and Sazh smiles at it, looks like he wants to stomp it or shoot it to put it down permanently. Sazh chugs what's left in his glass, slamming the glass down. He shoves out of his seat, holsters his weapons, looks at Hope and says, "Get ready to get out of here. I'm changing the plans for the night. We're getting the Soldier out, or I'm going to die trying. And I'm getting some _fucking payback."_

He stalks out of the room, leaving Hope to chase after him or be left behind.

* * *

T minus 6 hours

Lightning's hands are shaking as she twists the detonating cord into the shapes that she wants, attaching the detonators, and carefully – oh so carefully – placing them in her pack again.

She has four bombs. Individually, they're small, but if she can either place them at various load-bearing points of the garage, or under the Skytank itself, they'll destroy both the building and the tank. She wants to get into the garage, which would mean blowing a hole in an exterior wall and placing as many bombs as possible on the interior. Preferably all on the Skytank, and/or any fuel supply.

Burning their fuel would be a huge bonus. Without fuel, the Skytank will still be useless. Whereas Sazh has worked to upgrade and retrofit all his machinery and his ship with renewable energy sources, these monsters have only stolen the limited fuel that the outposts had on hand. They'd run out soon enough anyway, and like locusts, would descend on any supply that fills their immediate needs.

The problem, as Sazh had explained to her numerous times, is that the fuel that they all have won't outlast the year. They desperately need to establish an energy source and power grid before that happens. If they don't, whatever semblance of civilization remains in this world would disappear.

So, burning their fuel supply is a highly desirable secondary objective for her. It's not mission critical: their mission is to save the hostages before Sazh blows the place to hell. That means she needs to neutralize the Skytank as a distraction in order to allow Snow and the hostages to slip away undetected. But if she can take out any reserves of fuel so that stragglers and survivors can't use it? That'd be a big bonus.

She takes a moment to check her rifle again. It's adequate, but she wishes she had the comfortable weight of her Edged Carbine at her hip.

She takes a moment to gather the chain up, remembering the master lock above. Snow doesn't usually use any weapons, preferring hand to hand. He's simply in no condition for it today. If anything attacks him, he'll need more than his usual agility and strength to save himself and the hostages. The chain isn't much, but he can put enough force behind a swing to knock someone out from several paces.

With the right application of force, he could probably snap someone's neck before they got near him. She climbs the stairs, plucks the master lock from where she left it, and locks it onto the hoop of chain that she created for it. It's a good weight, and she managed to balance it well. She pulls it over her shoulder and turns to look at Snow, finds him already watching her with a small smile on his face. He nods at her.

They're okay for now. She's more relieved than she'd thought possible.

Snow wasn't wrong about the two of them always fighting. Lightning and Snow have butted heads since the day they met. She thought he was a worthless, jobless, do-nothing, lay about loser sponging off Lightning by taking advantage of Serah's naivety. Snow thought she was a miserable, judgmental, stuck up bitch who was determined to control her sister's life.

Their opinions of one another didn't improve when Serah turned to crystal, either.

It wasn't until they started fighting side-by-side that Lightning admitted to herself that she'd misjudged Snow. She can't say when he went from thinking she was the human equivalent of cancer, to trusted comrade in arms, but she knows that he extended the olive branch long before she willingly accepted it.

Snow can't hold grudges. Lightning can't _not_ hold grudges. It's who they are.

Right now, she is so thankful for Snow's forgiving nature that she could weep. Today had been a terrible day for the two of them, and Lightning really needs him on her side right now. She doesn't want to part here on bad terms. She's not an idiot. She knows that their odds are poor. They're surrounded by enemies, behind enemy lines. Snow is still nowhere near top shape, and neither is she, if she's being honest. Sure, she's in far better shape than he is, but she's sporting a minor concussion. She'd nearly died the previous day in that little avalanche, and then again of exposure as she lay freezing to death on the Steppe. A few hours' sleep and a bottle of elixir doesn't erase that kind of traumatic injury, any more than an Eidolon's healing spell can put to rights all the wrongs inflicted on Snow.

They're both the walking wounded. They need to be on the same page, or they'll never survive this night.

So Snow's small smile untwists a knot around her heart that Lightning hadn't even realized was tied in the first place. They're okay; they'll be okay.

Snow turns his attention back to the women and says, "Okay, here's the plan, ladies: you're all with me. You stick close to me; you do what I say, when I say it. I'm going to do everything I can to keep you safe, but I need you to help me do that, okay? I promise you, as long as I'm breathing, no one is putting their hands on you again."

Lightning cannot express the love she has for this man.

"Lightning here," he points to her, "is going to set a distraction, and you're going to stick with me. We're going to be quick and quiet. I'm going to cut through the fence, and you're all going to go through ahead of me and keep the cliffs on your right. Stay as close to them as possible. Keep one hand on them if you have to. If you're out of the shadow of the mountains, they'll spot you easy. The Steppe is covered in a layer of snow and ice, which reflects any and all light. That means stay low, stay in the shadow and move. Don't stop! I don't care what you hear, _you don't stop moving_. If I go down, _you keep moving_. Do you understand me?" They all nod at him, murmuring quiet agreements. "Okay. Good enough. Get ready."

Snow moves over to Lightning, glances at the dead body on the floor as he passes it. "I know this piece of shit," he says. Then he spits on him. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." Then he looks her right in the eyes. "You have 15 minutes. Then I'm coming back for you. That's the deal." He says it with a finality that indicates he will accept no arguments from her.

She has no plans to give him one. She nods, hands him the chain, which he gives a strange look but accepts. She gathers her belongings, slipping one of the bombs into each pocket, and leaving two in the bag. When she looks back at Snow, he's eyeing her unhappily.

_Uh oh._

"What's the matter?" she asks.

"You stick out like a sore thumb. They'll spot you from across the camp." He heaves a sigh, and it looks for a moment like he's going to balk at the entire plan and insist they scrap it and start over. She knows how much he hates leaving her behind, and she knows that it's only because he trusts her that he conceded an argument that he'd already won. Then he looks at the dead body again and says, "Oh, I _hate_ this idea."

"What?"

"Put his coat on," Snow says, pointing at the camouflage coat Jace was wearing when she caved in his skull. "With the rifle and the coat, you'll blend in from a distance. From close up, it'll buy you a second or two to act. You don't need more than that if you get cornered. I've seen you take out three guys in two seconds. Granted that's usually with your blade, but you have your creep friend with you." He smirks as he says it. She huffs a laugh at the use of Odin's hated nickname. Of course, she knows that's why Snow insists on using it: because it both amuses and annoys her. "He'll lend you a sword, and give you a ride, right? What am I worried about?"

She looks at Jace's dead body. The thought of touching him makes her skin crawl, but Snow is right. It's a good plan. She has no valid reason for refusing him. Still…

She hesitates too long.

"Light? What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me 'nothing.' If something's wrong, you tell me. We've got one shot at this. If there's a problem, let's go over it and fix it."

"There's no problem, Snow."

"I can see there's a problem. And the more you tell me there isn't one, the worse I think it is."

She sighs. "I just…" she has no idea what to say. All the reasons she has for not wanting to touch that man, never mind wear his coat, are firmly grounded in emotion. Reason dictates that it's just a coat, and it'll work as a disguise and potentially save her life, and Snow's life by proxy. He's already made it clear that he's coming back for her, and he's willing to die to do it. That can't happen. "Nothing. It's nothing." She kneels down and starts pulling at the jacket, willing her hands to stop shaking.

Snow kneels down next to her, staring at her with concern, studying her every movement as though trying to divine truths from her actions that she won't reveal in words. Then he looks down at the body. Then back at her again, and she sees the pieces fall into place. His whole face changes, transforms into a mask of horrified outrage.

_Damn it._

"Oh, _fuck this!"_ Snow says, and pulls her up and away. He leads her to the other side of the room, holds onto her elbows and tries to meet her eyes. When she continues avoiding them, he says, "Look at me." His voice is soft, but insistent. She'd really wanted to avoid this entire topic, but there's nothing to be done about it now. She sighs, then meets his eyes and he stiffens. She can see a tremor pass through his body. He closes his eyes, blows out a hard breath, and says, "Forget the coat."

She's so relieved that he's not going to make her talk about it!

"It's a good plan, Snow."

"Yeah, it would be a good plan if he hadn't—", he cuts himself off, shaking with rage. "Did _you_ kill him?"

"Yes."

"That's my girl," he whispers; he tucks her hair behind her ear, then kisses her temple. "Come on, let's get the fuck out of here."

"Can you get me the coat? I just don't want to…" _touch him_ , she thinks. She can't say it aloud. It's too much like admitting that he took something from her.

"You don't have to wear the coat, Light. I'm sorry I suggested it."

"No, it's a good idea," she says, meaning it. "I just don't want to—"

"I got it," he says. "If you're sure. I don't want you doing this if it upsets you. We have enough problems. It's not that big of a deal."

"A couple of seconds, Snow." A couple of seconds can and have meant the difference between life and death for her before. He knows it: that's why he came up with the plan in the first place.

He sighs and nods. "All right." She faces away while he retrieves the coat. She hears him say, " _Motherfucker"_ and kick the dead body, before walking back over to her and helping her into the coat. She reaches for the buttons, but he whispers, "I got it," and brushes her fingers aside. She doesn't argue the point because she prefers not touching this coat at all. Once it's buttoned up, he looks her over with a critical eye. "Do you want to wear my hat? Cover your hair up?"

Translation: your hair gives you away. Except…

"No. You need it." He does. He's still too pale, and too cold.

"Not more than I need you, I don't." It's a devastating admission, and he says it like it's a lunch order. _Unbelievable._

"I have an idea." She pulls his bandanna out of her pocket; she works to untie the knot, palming, then pocketing the blond hairs that she'd so coveted the entire journey here. "Think this will work?" It's obvious from the look on his face that he recognizes the bandanna as his. He tilts his head at her as if he's never seen her before, but she breaks eye contact and looks back at the bandanna.

He shocks her by not commenting.

"Here, I'll tie it on." She lets him have the bandanna, lets him pull her hair into it to cover as much of it as possible. When she turns to look at him, he kisses her forehead, then her lips, and says, " _Now_ …let's get the fuck out of here."

* * *

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is everyone ready to get the fuck out of here? Yes? Good. Next time, we are out.
> 
> End Note: I made up all that shit about the technology. Please don't tell me that it wouldn't work. I have zero doubt that it wouldn't work. But, I also don't believe in magical Eidolons. Just suspend disbelief for me. I know it's harder with tech than most things, but please. For me?  
> The Info about CB is true, except it stands for Citizen Band not Cocoon Band.  
> I keep telling you the big showdown is next, and now, it actually is. All the players are taking their assigned spots. The plan is set. All that's left is to execute it.
> 
> Let me know what you think...


	14. Time to Murder and Create Part II: A Hundred Indecisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Showdown begins.... sort of. There's still some indecision going on, apparently, which means that the two part chapter, is now three parts. Time to Murder & Create to be concluded (hopefully) in Chapter 15.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes: I want to thank everyone for your support. I'd like to express my deep appreciation to everyone who posted reviews on the last 4 chapters.

Disclaimer: I own the plot, not the players.

* * *

"Man is the cruelest animal."  
-Friedrich Nietzsche

**Chapter 14  
Time to Murder and Create  
Part II: A Hundred Indecisions  
**

~~Original time: T minus 5 hours 45 minutes~~   
_**New time: T plus 30 minutes** _

Within a few minutes of Lightning donning her disguise, Snow has dumped Jace's body into the dungeon, given another rundown to the hostages, and settled himself by the door to head out.

Lightning has been eager to get out of this camp since before she was escorted into it, but now that the moment of truth has arrived, she feels the stirrings of anxiety fluttering in her stomach. That's nothing unusual, nor is it a bad thing: overconfidence is far more likely to get them all killed than an abundance of caution (though hesitance can be just as hazardous to everyone's health as cockiness.)

But as she looks at Snow, a creeping horror fills her, whispering to her that she best take a good long look, because she will never again see him alive. The rational part of her understands that this feeling is a conjuration, born from the trauma of having found him just in time to nearly lose him for good. And then to yank him back from death, only to be forced to accept the impossibility of his continued survival, is a wound too raw and fresh to bandage, even temporarily.

Lightning feels an unbearable amount of guilt, not just for being the cause of Snow's pain and torment, but at the cruelty she'd purposely directed towards him after _that night._ She spent the entire journey through the blizzard thinking of him, and dreaming of him, all the while refusing to speak with him, and even going so far as to threaten to throw away her communicator if he continued to attempt to contact her. He'd been worried. He told her that, not that Snow is ever evasive about his motivations. Snow doesn't dissemble or mince words. After all, it was he that came to her about the previously unnamed thing between the two of them. He felt something, and had no interest in deception: self or otherwise.

But it's worse than her cruel dismissal of his feelings of both the love he confessed, and the concern that he expressed. When she was preparing for this insane mission, she'd left behind tokens for everyone, left nothing unsaid with anyone.

Except him.

She'd known it was cruel, even though she believed him to be safe at home with Serah. But when she called Serah, she wouldn't even let her sister mention Snow. Unlike her death march to Eden the previous year, Lightning every intention and expectation of surviving this mission. Still, she knew that there was a chance she wouldn't survive the night, and so, she made her goodbyes to everyone she loved, as best she could.

Everyone but Snow

Sure, she'd had her so-called reasons for her deliberate exclusion – their feelings were wrong, and a betrayal of Serah – but even as she was doing it, she knew she was being unjustifiably cruel. Of course, that had been the whole point. Snow needed to move on and forget about what he thought he felt about her, and what better way to convince him that he belonged with Serah, than by making him hate Lightning?

All she needed to do was remind him of why he didn't like her when they first met. How hard could that be?

She knows now that she grew too close to him, too dependent on him, during their time as l'Cie the previous year. It started out innocently enough. She'd felt adrift after losing Serah, and she cleaved to Snow – and he to her – in order to feel closer to their lost loved one. In her own grief, she failed to realize how vulnerable he was. All his bluster about being a Hero, saving the love of his life and getting his happily ever after, was intoxicating. In a time of misery and despair, Snow's unshakable optimism was addictive. The whole group counted on him.

It was an unfair burden to force him to bear, and Lightning is furious with herself and her behavior.

Snow was hurt and vulnerable, grieving for the lost love of his life, and in need of both comfort and purpose, but instead of offering him support as his soon-to-be sister – _for fuck sake, he called her Sis for months, what's wrong with her?_ – she glommed onto him.

She doesn't believe she did it on purpose, even though she can't deny that she did start to notice him in a way she oughtn't. In retrospect, it seems obvious that his loss of Serah, and his desire to fix that loss, had caused him to fixate on Lightning. Of course he'd attach himself to her! She was the closest thing to Serah he could have, and the family resemblance couldn't have helped. Protecting Lightning was a chance to redeem himself for what he perceived as his failure to protect Serah.

Lightning should have seen it, and put a stop to it. She should have maintained the distance between them that was there from the moment they met. All she needed to do was refuse to relent when he batted his baby blues, smirked, and winked at her. Hell, she should have punched him. Kicked him. Shot him. Something!

But what did she do? She allowed his unflappable optimism to infect her and his good looks and good humor to charm her. Before she knew what was happening, she'd attached herself to him like some sort of leech, sucking up all his attention. And his grief, fear and loneliness made him vulnerable and needy.

Then, like a thief, she'd stolen away his affections from her sister. She didn't mean to do it, but intentions don't mean shit. It's irrelevant that she hadn't meant to break anyone's heart. And since someone's heart has to break, Lightning figured it was only fair if it was hers. She's at fault; she's the interloper.

And so, she tried to undo last year's error of stealing Snow's affections. What better way to stop him from loving her than to make him hate her? And so, she was cruel to him. She knows she hurt him over the past few weeks. Hell, she may have been hurting him all year by avoiding him like the plague due to her discomfort. While any hurt she caused then had been unintentional, it still worked in her favor.

Of course, the only way she could continue being cruel, was by being angry with him. Hell, anger is Lightning's go to emotional response to everything. Anger is comforting and familiar. She knows how to deal with anger. Longing? Heartbreak? No clue whatsoever.

Anger? Hello, my old friend. Come in, have a seat. Can I get you a drink or twelve?

So, yeah. When he blindsided her and upended her life that night, she got angry. She doubts he was even a little surprised by her reaction.

Except for the running away part, that is. No one could've seen that coming, including her.

So, she got angry and nasty, figuring that he'd tuck tail and go home to her sweet as pie sister. But what did he do? He followed her, and got himself killed. Not nearly killed; actually fucking dead, all because of her. What happened to him is her fault as surely as if she'd done it to him herself.

She doesn't want to make the same mistake again. She doesn't want him to get hurt again, not by or for her. And she doesn't think it's fair for him to think she has no feelings for him. Not when he freely offers her so many unreciprocated tender little morsels of grace, over and over again. She doesn't want to leave anything unsaid.

Just in case.

"Light?" By the concern underpinning his tone, Lightning can tell it's not the first time he's called her name. "Lightning? Are you okay?"

She shakes her head and walks to the other side of the room, listening to his trailing footsteps. His fingers hook onto her arm, and he says, "Come here for a minute."

He tugs her over to the far corner, takes a quick glance back to the door and his charges before whispering, "What's going on? It's not like you to be this distracted before a mission. If there's a problem, you have to tell me. I can't fix it if you won't tell me what's wrong."

He sounds desperate, and Lightning realizes that she's still hurting him, despite her best intentions. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Confused. Frustrated. Afraid.

She looks into his eyes only to watch them widen in shock. Shaking his head, Snow cups her cheeks in both hands, erases the small distance between them and says, " _No._ Come on. Please, don't!"

Snow's thumbs vanquish the tears that she hadn't even realized were falling. This isn't going the way she intended for it to go. "What's the matter, Light? Please, tell me."

"This is my fault," she says. His brow furrows in confusion. She knows she's not making any sense, and she can see that Snow is worried, heading towards panicked. She needs to get herself under control right now.

"What's your fault? I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

"You shouldn't be here." Snow shakes his head, starts protesting immediately. She ignores the protests, and says, "It's my fault this happened to you."

"No, it's not!" His voice is firm, almost angry. "Why would you say that? Don't say that. Don't even think that!"

"Of course, you won't blame me. But it doesn't change the fact that you shouldn't be here at all. That you were so badly hurt because I was terrible to you."

"Stop it! You didn't do this." He pauses for a long moment, and it's obvious he's considering and reconsidering his next words. "Okay, look, if you hadn't left, would we be here? No. Probably not. But if I didn't show up at your house, then you wouldn't have left. So, if it's anyone's fault, it's mine."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Oh, _that's_ ridiculous, but you being responsible for what these fucking monsters did to me…that makes sense?" Snow snorts and shakes his head; he softens and says, "Come on, Light. You didn't do anything wrong. You came in here to save these women. Don't apologize for that."

Her laugh is a bitter thing. "Even now, you're defending me."

"I will always defend you. How can you not know that?"

She does know that, even though she hadn't realized she knew. What she can't do, is understand it. He drives her crazy. "You shouldn't."

He just chuckles. "I do a lot of things I shouldn't do, but this isn't one of them. I told you, I would do anything for you."

"I know." The words are all breath, barely able to squeak past the lump in her throat. He smiles and nods at her.

"Are we good, then?"

She shakes her head. None of this has gone the way she planned. Telling him is vital, and he's making it impossible, what with his eyes, and hands, and _whole self_ all up in her space. Looking at her.

_Touching her._

What was she doing again? Oh, yeah. "There's something I need to tell you."

"No, not now."

"What?"

"Not now," he repeats. "Not like this. I don't want to hear anything from you that's going to sound like you saying goodbye to me. And whatever you want to say? It's going to sound like goodbye. I can't have that."

"But—"

"Listen to me. We're getting out of here. I refuse to accept any alternative. I'm not dying here, and I'm not losing you. That's just facts. We're going to get out of this nightmare, and then, I want to hear what you have to say to me." He leans close. "But don't say anything now that you're going to regret later, Light. It'll kill me if you say something, only to take it back once we're safe. And we _are_ going to get out of here. Do you believe me?"

What can she say but, "Yes."

"Good." He presses a kiss to her forehead, lips lingering long enough to make his feelings unmistakable. "Right now, all that matters to me is getting you and these women out of here. I want you safe, Lightning. Everything else can wait."

"I want you safe, too."

"Hey, you know me. I'll be fine. I'm a Big Damn Hero."

"Hell yeah, you are." She believes it despite all her good sense and judgement.

He stares at her for a long moment before mumbling, "Ah, fuck it." Then his hands are in her hair and his lips are on hers, tongue slipping in to flick and tickle, daring her to give chase. Lightning accepts the challenge, opening her mouth wider to him, desperate to memorize the taste and feel of him.

He pulls back, thumb slipping along her bottom lip once, whispering, " _Good god, Girl,"_ before replacing his thumb with his lips. He nibbles her bottom lip until she sways into his embrace, desperate with need for both air and him. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to hers and pants out, "To be continued. No goodbyes."

_Oh, hell yeah, to be continued._

Nodding, she agrees, "No goodbyes." If he keeps kissing her like that, she'll agree to anything he wants. Hopefully, he'll never figure that shit out. He'll be insufferably smug if he does.

More insufferable. More smug. _Smugger?_ _Is that even a word?_ Wait, what was she doing again?

Oh, yeah.

_Sexy, smug jerk._

"Good. Now put this shit out of your head. Just focus on getting into the garage, planting _Sazh's_ _bombs_ ," he shakes his head, mumbling " _for fuck sake"_ under his breath, "and getting out of there as quickly as possible. Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Be careful in that garage. Don't get got. Just do what needs to be done, and get the fuck out of there. No off mission plans, Light!"

"I'll be fine."

He raises an eyebrow at her, recognizing the dodge for what it is. "Not good enough. Promise me!"

"Fine. I promise. I won't get got."

" _And?"_

She huffs. "I won't go off mission." He holds her eyes, clearly not believing her and waiting for her to acquiesce. "I _won't._ "

She _will_ , and he knows it. Goddamn it.

"I know you want payback, Light. Now's not the time. I've got plenty of scores to settle myself, but they don't matter more than you or these women. They'll keep." When she doesn't say anything, he says, " _Please_. I can't leave you here if I can't trust you to be right behind me."

He knows her too well, and it's getting on her last nerve.

" _Fine,"_ she concedes with an eye-roll. "I won't go looking for payback. _Today."_

He smiles. "That's my girl. So, we're clear: no dicking around in there. You get in, do your thing and get out of there. Right?"

"I just said so, didn't I?" Any goodwill that kiss earned him is seriously starting to dwindle.

"Okay, so we're ready. There's nothing else we need to work out, is there?"

"Yeah, we're good. Just…" she reaches into her pocket and withdraws the bullet detonator. "Take this." He accepts the detonator, but looks confused. "It makes more sense for you to blow the bombs in the front when you need the distraction."

"But—"

"Don't worry. The bombs are on a sequential delay. They'll blow a few seconds apart, so everyone will be scrambling to figure out where the attackers are hiding outside the camp."

"So, why don't you just come with me?"

"The Skytank, Snow. We can't outrun it."

"Fuck."

"Okay, so when you get to the fence, blow the bombs in the front. That should get most of the attention to the North while you're slipping out the South fence."

"Gotcha… I hate this."

"I know."

"I don't think you do, but that's okay."

"Alright, let's go."

"Um. Hold up. This is a dead man's switch," Snow says, apropos of nothing. That strange look he gave her when pulling the detonator out of her cast makes more sense now. She didn't think he'd recognize the type of detonators she had. She really needs to stop underestimating him. After all, Snow was using hand grenades long before she'd met him. It's not too farfetched to assume that he knows his way around other types of explosives.

"Yeah. They're all modified Dead Man's Switches." He tilts his head, waiting for an explanation. "Extra insurance, Snow. Nothing about these guys indicates that they'd be willing to sacrifice themselves for anything."

"So?"

"So…I figured they'd be less likely to shoot me if it meant they'd blow themselves up for their trouble." Snow covers his eyes with his hands, shakes his head once and exhales a frustrated sigh.

" _Words,"_ Snow says, looking in her eyes and pocketing the detonator. "So many words, we're going to have."

"I can only reiterate, 'won't that be fun.'"

He smirks at her, leans in and whispers in her ear: "Oh, I'll make it fun for you, Girl." She shivers at the promise in his words and tone. Heading to the door, he says, "I can't promise the same for Sazh, though."

He really needs to get over his problem with Sazh; it's both pointless and ridiculous.

"Okay, Ladies. Let's blow this joint, so Light and Sazh can, you know, _blow_ this joint." He gives them an easy smile and winks at them. One of the women starts sobbing, and Snow's whole face scrunches up in dismay. "Look, I know you're scared, but just remember the plan. Just stay together, keep moving and you'll be fine. I swear, I won't let anyone hurt you. Do you believe me?"

"Lightning believes you, so I believe you, too," Viola says, then she shocks everyone by wrapping her arms around Snow's waist. His hands hover over her for a moment. Then he relaxes, smiles, and pats her back. Into his chest, she says, "Neither one of you has to be here, but you both risked yourselves to save us. So, I believe you when you say you'll get us home."

Snow hates crying himself even more than he hates seeing women cry. Lightning can count the number of times she's seen Snow tear up on both hands, but from Snow's rapid blinking and furrowed brow, Lightning thinks she may need to also use some toes in the future.

Snow smiles, pats Viola's head. "All right, then." All the sobbing resolves into quiet sniffles. One by one, the hostages nod at him.

Snow amazes and enthralls her. Everything he just said to these women should've come across like arrogant bullshit from a conceited, egocentric LARPer, but instead, he managed to reassure, calm and soothe a group of terrified and terrorized hostages.

Is it any wonder why Snow has his very own merry band of idiots hanging on his every word, willing to follow him around and help him find his happily ever after? The only surprise to Lightning is that Snow no longer has a gaggle of giggling groupies following him around as if were a rock star, praying he'll pay them some attention.

He may be a big dumb blond, but he's also a big damn hero, and a charming one to boot.

Lightning knows now that she never stood a chance.

To prove her point, Snow gives her a secret, lopsided smirk. His eyes go soft, and she feels her heartbeat kick up just the tiniest bit.

The jerk.

He clears his throat to make sure his voice doesn't betray him. "Okay, everyone. I'm going to count you all as we head out, and Viola here is going to help me make sure that we have the same count at all times." After he counts and recounts, Snow turns to her one last time and declares, "I'll see you in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes."

He throws her a wink, and then they're outside and he's gone around the back of the building, and she's making her way through the icy, packed snow towards the garage. She didn't get to say what she'd wanted to say, but she feels better all the same. Besides, she knows he knows; just because it was left unsaid, doesn't mean they didn't tell each other.

Setting aside all thoughts of anything except for her mission, Lightning heads away from Snow and the hostages, determined to survive and reunite with him sixteen minutes from right now.

* * *

~~Original Time: T minus 6 hours 45 minutes~~   
_**New time: T minus 30 minutes** _

Hope boggles at the door to Sazh's workshop for a long moment, before jumping out of his chair and chasing after his friend. The events of the day still feel surreal, like he's recalling the events of a dream.

Or nightmare.

Hope follows Sazh's footprints through the hardened snowpack, amazed at how much ground his friend managed to cover during his short head start. There is something all too familiar about Sazh's single-minded, vengeful focus, and Hope's mind turns to Lightning.

The last time he'd charged headlong toward danger, he'd been racing after a furious Lightning. She'd been a tornado of grief and rage, and she swept him up, and dragged him along, and together, they'd cut a swath of devastation that spanned the distance from the Hanging Edge all the way to the heart of Cocoon.

He still has nightmares about their death march to Eden. In the long, dark hours of the night, Hope wonders how the hell he and Lightning survived that suicide mission, because that's what it was. Their focused rage may have destroyed everything that was unfortunate enough to get between them and Eden, but it couldn't overcome the ambush once they reached the capital. Oh no! They were caught and done for, with no possible escape. Lightning told him to live, and was prepared to die to make that happen, but Hope knew he had no more chance of surviving than she had. They were both going to die, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Then Snow appeared out of nowhere – wearing a shit eating grin, and riding a frigging motorcycle of all things – and saved all their asses that day.

And today, Hope is going to return the favor.

Sazh may believe that Snow is beyond help, but Hope knows better. Snow is far too stubborn to die. There's no way he'd survive the war last year, save all humanity, and then let a bunch of cowards — who sneak up on and murder sleeping, unarmed civilians; who kidnap women and murder children — take him out. Oh no! Snow is still alive, and Hope has every intention of making sure that big jerk stays that way.

Then he's going to strangle him.

Hope catches up to Sazh at The Oerban Lady's gangway. Sazh keys in the security code to open the hatch as Hope skids to a halt beside him, panting out, "Hey, wait a minute. You can't just take off and leave me behind!"

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Barely," Hope grumbles. When the gangway extends, Sazh marches up it without a backward glance, and Hope's frustration boils over. "I don't have my gear, Sazh!"

Sazh finally turns to look at him, but the look in his eyes is colder than the subzero winter air. "Cold weather gear is on board. Not that you're getting off the ship, mind you."

_Not getting off the—_

"I need my weapon!" Hope shouts, angry and frustrated by Sazh's unreasonable attitude. This behavior is so out of character for Sazh that Hope is starting to have serious reservations about this mission.

Sazh is one of the least impulsive people that Hope has ever met, but right now, he's behaving more like Lightning.

Or, even worse, _Snow._

Lightning is methodical about many things, but her training has taught her the value of following her gut, and the dangers inherent in hesitation. That leads her to make snap decisions that can and have blindsided her companions. Still, Hope spent months learning to trust Lightning and follow her lead, even when her behavior seemed erratic and downright suicidal.

On the other hand, Snow lacks Lightning's discipline, cares little for tactics, and, as Lightning once put it, leads with his balls rather than his brains more often than not. Snow's special brand of impulsive tends to put him between his allies and imminent danger, and Hope can admit that it works more often than not.

Okay, so it works. Somehow, it _always_ works.

Jerk.

So, while Lightning and Snow are capable and dependable, they lack the comforting predictability of Sazh, or hell, even Fang.

The last thing that Hope needs tonight is a surprise.

As if reading his mind and deciding to play a cosmic joke on him, Sazh reaches into the bag at his feet and shoves something into Hope's hands. "You don't need to go anywhere. Here, Kid."

Hope fumbles for a moment, completely confused as to how Sazh may have gotten his hands on Hope's Airwing, before he realizes what it is that he's actually holding.

Lightning's Edged Carbine.

"But… What? Why? No!" Hope has no idea how to even use this weapon. Lightning let him try it once last year, and he could barely level the thing.

Sazh throws him an irritated look. "Don't try to use the blade. Stick with the gun. Trust me: it fires beautifully."

Hope tries lifting the Edged Carbine and once again finds himself wondering how the hell Lightning can wield this thing one-handed. Hope needs to use both hands just to keep it steady when firing the gun.

"There's no shame in using two hands, Hope," Sazh says, once again, weirding Hope out by practically reading his mind. "The Soldier has been using that weapon for years. Don't try to use it the way she uses it. Use it the way you use it."

"Why are you giving this to me?"

"She wanted you to have it. When we get her out of there, I'm sure she'll be thrilled when you return it to her."

* * *

~~Original time: T minus 5 hours 39 minutes~~   
_**New time: T plus 36 minutes** _

Lightning once again finds herself longing for the comfortable familiarity of her Edged Carbine. She feels naked and exposed without it, even armed as she is with a rifle, and disguised as one of the terrorists.

As soon as Snow is out of sight, Lightning puts him and the hostages from her mind. She trusts Snow to do his part, and the fact that he walked away from her with barely a backward glance indicates that he trusts her to do hers.

She balls up her anxiety over the state of Snow's health - both mental and physical - and buries it deep within herself. If they survive tonight, she wants to be able to pull those issues back out to deal with, rather than toss them away, or worse, allow them to fester and rot in some hidden corner of her mind.

After all, it's her unwillingness and inability to cope with uncomfortable truths about herself that led both Snow and her to this place and time. If Lightning had any sort of healthy coping skills, she wouldn't have reacted to Snow's impromptu declarations of affection by grabbing everything she could carry and running scared from her home in the middle of the coldest, most dangerous winter weather conditions she's ever experienced, in an attempt to put half a world between herself and Snow.

All right, so that's an exaggeration. New Eden isn't actually on the opposite side of Grand Pulse. It is, however, the farthest inhabited settlement from Oerba, and the _New Oerban Resistance Area_ (NORA, because Snow's merry band of mouth-breathers are nothing if not consistently unoriginal). The journey across the Steppe is both long and dangerous enough - what with the lack of any cover or protection from the roving packs of large carnivorous predators, potential stampedes from grazing Adamantoise herds, and the Amphisbaena nests secreted away high up on the cliffs - that attempting to cross it on foot during snowmageddon in order to avoid Snow and his feelings wasn't only reckless, but downright suicidal.

So, yeah: Lightning sucks at dealing with emotions, but at least she's now willing to acknowledge that flaw, and admit that it's one of her worst personality traits.

Progress!

The wind is gusty, blowing snow and ice under the sleeves of her stolen coat. She looks up at the sky, and sees that she was right when she'd thought the weather was threatening to dump more snow onto them. There's a light precipitation just barely starting to fall. If it follows the pattern that she's used to, the small, barely visible droplets of mixed frozen precipitation will start clumping into a chunks of heavy, wet snow, and come down, hard and fast, before the temperatures drop enough that the snow will turn powdery, and fall in steady sheets.

This will be both a problem and a blessing for them. A blessing in that it will give them additional cover, concealing them and burying their tracks quickly enough to make discovery and pursuit a bigger challenge; it's a problem for obvious reasons: descending temperatures, gusting winds, reduced visibility leading to increased chances of getting lost, separated, turned around, and succumbing to exposure to the elements.

Nothing to be done for it. They'll just have to hurry towards shelter in Mah'Habara. Snow knows the caverns better than most, since he and his groupies spent several months exploring and mapping them for Sazh and Bartholomew. There's really no one better equipped to get those hostages to safety than him, even playing as injured as he is.

Lightning does a fast circuit of the camp in order to get a lay of the land. It appears as if the watch itself is minimal, and the majority of the men are bunked down, hopefully after having imbibed an excessive amount of alcohol or some other intoxicant. A group of sleepy drunks will be much easier to evade or eliminate.

Of course, to count on such ideal circumstances would be foolish, so Lightning operates on the assumption that every person in the camp is awake, trained, competent, dangerous, and therefore, a deadly threat.

Lightning moves through the camp with casual purpose: too fast, and she'll appear suspicious and/or draw heightened attention and security measures; too slow and/or aimless, and she may instigate a confrontation. As Snow said, her disguise will buy her a couple of seconds at most, and if she wastes them before she even approaches her ultimate target - the garage and Skytank - she will lose the opportunity altogether.

One of the best pieces of advice Snow ever gave Lightning is, that no matter what you are doing, to always act like you're supposed to be doing exactly that thing. If you walk right through the front door of a building and head past the front desk like you own the joint, most observers will assume that you are supposed to be there. If you act shady, sneaking and constantly looking around — in other words, behaving as though you're doing something wrong — people will notice, and assume that you are, in fact, doing something wrong. Then he demonstrated his point by strolling into a restricted area on the Lindblum, grabbing a datalog, and walking back out, grinning and laughing, like he hadn't just committed espionage in front of a member of the Guardian Corp.

She shook her head at him, called him an idiot, and confiscated the intel. If he'd been caught, they would've executed him. Of course, he hadn't been caught, which was his entire point. He acted like he was supposed to retrieve that datalog from that restricted area, and no one challenged him.

Snow had impressed her, though she'd have sooner swallowed her own tongue than admit to such a thing back then. Still, she took the lesson on board, and has found that it suits her far better than sneaking or subterfuge.

She figures that it works for her and Snow so well because they're confident in their abilities, and more than a little bit reckless, both attributes being vital to successfully hiding in plain sight.

So, Lightning does her best to act like she's authorized to enter the garage. She finds the door, turns the knob and isn't shocked to find it locked. But she has one key left, and she slides it into the lock, turns it, and unbelievably, it actually works.

She slips through the door, locks it behind her, and finds herself only a few feet from the Skytank.

She thinks back to the last one she encountered. It was during the war, outside Hope's house in Felix Heights. Snow marched outside wearing nothing but his pants and some bandages. He'd barely regained consciousness from his earlier injuries, but still felt obligated to stare down a Havoc Skytank and talk shit to the Sanctum, PSICOM, and the entire population of Cocoon. She shakes her head and smiles at the memory.

If the Havoc Skytank is impressive from far away, it's terrifying up close. The main cannon is longer than Snow is tall, and she knows from experience that it packs enough of a wallop that the concussive force of a near miss is enough to kill a person. Looking at this thing, she can't quite believe that she, Fang and Hope managed to not only survive a direct assault from one, but actually destroy it.

Once again, she finds herself lamenting her lack of magic. Not that she would actually want to go back. It's just that magic really did come in handy in life and death situations.

Like this one, for example.

She needs to think strategically about placing these bombs because the tank's armor is thick enough to stop most high caliber ammo, and withstand significant explosive forces. Whether the people inside would survive is a different story.

Maybe that's the answer. Put the bombs inside and blow up the interior. The tank is armored on the outside, but a single explosive inside the tank would destroy the controls and kill everyone on board.

Lightning drops beneath the tank, searching for a secondary hatch. She crawls along the floor, searching the undercarriage for a cargo or ammo hatch. It's slow going in the dark, but Lightning can't chance turning on a light. She's not supposed to be in the garage, after all.

Time is ticking down, she knows. She wants to plant the bombs before Snow cuts the fence and detonates the explosives, but she's not sure she's going to make it. Once those explosions go off, things are going to get much more intense inside this camp. She'd like to use the chaos as cover for her escape, but if she can't plant these bombs, she's going to be stuck in this camp with the entire group awake, and on the hunt for the attacker or saboteur.

Not to mention that Snow is planning to come back into the camp. If she sticks out like a sore thumb, what exactly does he think he's going to do? With his boots on, he's almost exactly six and half feet tall, and Lightning has a feeling that everyone in this place will recognize him. If the hostages were forced to watch, she can only assume everyone here either saw or participated in whatever horrors Snow suffered. He won't be able to hide in plain sight the way she just did.

At the midpoint of the tank's undercarriage, Lightning's hand comes down on something small and metallic. It rolls a bit when the heel of her hand hits it, and Lightning almost faceplants onto the cold concrete floor. She closes her hand around the offending object, intent on tossing it out of her way before she gets a look at what she's holding.

It's an awl.

The handle is tacky with what she assumes to be oil or tar or some other garage-type fluid, and she's about to pitch it aside and move on. Then she notices the smell, and she goes cold and still.

Blood.

For a moment, she figures her brain is playing tricks on her. After all, her cast was soaked in Snow's blood earlier. Of course, Snow peeled off the top layers of her cast, and there's no blood to be found anywhere on it right now.

Feeling both apprehensive and stupid, she sniffs the awl. Definitely blood. Then her eyes land on a dark spot on the concrete near at the front end of the Skytank.

She stares at the (blood)stain on the floor, then glances back at the awl in her hand. It clatters to the ground before she realizes that she'd let it go. Her hands fly up to muffle and contain the sounds coming out of her mouth.

Snow's words from earlier bang around in her head like a pinball. _'Be careful in that garage…. Just do what needs to be done, and get the fuck out of there. No off mission plans, Light!'_ And then there was what she'd considered the most obvious and innocuous part of his warning: _Don't get got._

She wouldn't think anything of it if it weren't for what he'd said to her while they were arguing earlier: _'Anyone can get got, Light. All it takes is one bad day. No. One bad moment.'_

They tortured him here, in this garage, and He. Didn't. Tell. Her.

Everything makes a kind of terrible sense now. Snow's wide-eyed look of horror at her mention of the garage; his immediate and irrational rejection of her plan; his repetitive refusal to countenance the idea of letting her infiltrate the garage, despite the fact that she was armed and well trained in military tactics.

The way he begged her on his hands and knees.

The way he trembled in her arms.

He'd made her promise him that she wouldn't go off mission—

_/ No off mission plans, Light! ….no dicking around in there. You get in, do your thing and get out of there. /_

—that she wouldn't snoop around and find out any more about every horror he'd endured—

/ _'…you can't ask me to do this. You don't understand. You can't know_. I don't want you to know. _Do you understand what I'm saying to you? /_

Even the fifteen minutes was meant to help prevent her finding what she'd just found.

A small voice in her mind – likely Odin – whispers that the promises and time limit are about protecting her, not from the truth of his experiences, but from getting caught and being subjected to the same, or possibly even worse, treatment.

She tells that voice to shut up. She knows that Snow wants to protect her. Snow's heart is in his eyes every time he looks at her,

She looks at the awl in her hand and knows that she can't just plant the bombs and leave. Not now that she's found this awl, and the bloodstained concrete around a drain in the floor, which these demons used to catch and siphon away Snow's blood.

Wouldn't want to leave a standing pool of blood. Someone might slip and hurt themselves, after all, and with all the sharp objects in this garage, that person might get hurt. Make sure to post the _Caution: Wet Floor_ signs once you hose the place down after torturing and murdering someone.

Safety first, people.

Lightning feels like she's losing it. Maybe she ought to just put the bombs on the fuel tank and get the hell out of here before she sees something she'll never be able to unsee. She knows that she'll never ask Snow to detail what he endured, but that doesn't mean that she doesn't need to know, right now, how much repayment she and Odin will be extracting, and from whom.

Decision made, Lightning approaches the drain and bloodstain. Her hands and legs are steady, but her insides are quaking, and her breath is shallow and shaky. Her mind shies away from the reality of what looms over the drain, so instead she examines the table beside it.

There are bloody tools on the table – she can't bear to look at them, so she doesn't – but there are also some personal items of Snow's. His scarf. His communicator. His pack. His gloves.

Her hat.

_What in the-?_

Lightning had completely forgotten about her hat until right now; for the life of her, she can't figure why she'd forgotten it. She left home with it and wore it the whole first leg of her journey to New Eden, and yet, she knows she wasn't wearing it when Sazh and Hope pulled her from the snow. Did she have it after Mah'Habara?

Yes. She's certain she did, which means she lost it on the Archylte Steppe. But how did these terrorists find—

It hits her with the force of an Adamantoise foot. "Snow found it. Snow found it on the Steppe, probably somewhere near the caravan's trail. That's why he—", _thought I was in the camp._ She can't finish the thought aloud, it's too unspeakable to utter. If she's right, then Snow was strapped to this upright metal rack wired by jumper cables to an electrical panel, suspended over a drain, beside a tray of blood-stained tools, knives, and one ruined, blood-soaked cat o' nine tails, all because of a hat.

_They electrocuted him._

These motherfuckers stabbed, whipped, cut, kicked, stomped and _fucking electrocuted him_ , all because he found her hat in the snow somewhere out on the Archylte Steppe.

She gags, and bends double, hand over her mouth, shaking her head and trying desperately not to throw up all over the place. She breathes through her mouth – the whole place reeks of blood, piss, and vomit – and waits for the nausea to pass.

As she stands there, breathing and trying to swallow back her rising gorge, her eyes land on a pistol. It sits beside the torture tray, next to the torture rack, in the torture garage – not to be confused with the torture dungeon that she just escaped, what the actual fuck – and she grabs it. Muscle memory takes over, and the familiar practices and motions of checking the balance, the ammo, the clip, the chamber, and looking down the sites, comforts her enough to regain control of herself. The clip is full, but the chamber is empty. She chambers a round, then adds another round from the box to the clip.

She slips the box of ammo into her pack along with Snow's communicator, pack, scarf and gloves. She clips the holster to the back of her waistband, hidden under her poncho and stolen coat just as all hell breaks loose in the camp outside.

The first explosion from the north rattles the rack next to her like a metal maraca, and she knows that she's only got five seconds before—

The second explosion is closer, and the ground shakes beneath her feet. _That can't be right._ The third explosion sounds like it hit the roof of the building.

_There's no way—_

The fourth and fifth hit almost simultaneously. _Wait! Fourth and fifth?_ She didn't plant five bombs! She planted three bombs. _What is happening?_

"Fuck!" She needs to move, now.

The lights in the garage come on, and she slithers under the Skytank, hoping to slink out of here. She's out of time and luck, and she has no idea what is going on outside. Did Sazh start dropping bombs already? There's no way it's time yet. Why would he carpet bomb the camp before her time is up? What the hell is happening?

And most importantly, is Snow okay?

Lightning crawls away from the footsteps, desperate to reach the door so she can see what the hell is going on outside. Her hand lands on the awl again as something clamps around her ankle, yanking her off her knees, onto her face, and dragging her back towards the rack.

* * *

To be continued...

Feedback is love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upcoming Chapter 15 Time to Murder & Create Part III: Pinned & Wriggling  
> Chapter 16: Do I Dare to Eat a Peach?  
> Chapter 17: An Overwhelming Question
> 
> End Note: I had to split this chapter in half. It was getting ridiculous. So, hopefully, Time to Murder & Create will remain a trilogy of chapters. As long as nothing changes, the three chapters listed above are the remaining posts for this story. Chapter 16 is done. Chapter 15 should be done and posted by next week. Chapter 17 will be finished shortly after I post 16. I expect to finish this story up within a few weeks now.
> 
> One of the causes for delay was that I've been working on Evolution while working on Chapter 14/15. Surprise! You'll have that soon too!


	15. Time to Murder & Create Part III: Pinned & Wriggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Escape is more than just a Theme Park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've finally made it to the end of a three part, 50+ page chapter. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: You know the drill. I only own the ideas for the plot. Snow owns my soul. Yadda Yadda

* * *

34 Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.  
\- Matthew 10:34 (KJV)

 **Chapter 15  
** **Time to Murder and Create  
Part III: Pinned and Wriggling**

 ~~Original Time: T minus 6 hours 27 minutes~~  
New Time: T minus 12 minutes

Hope stands beside The _Oerban Lady,_ staring at Lightning's Edged Carbine. There's no denying how Hope feels about this weapon: it intimidates and terrifies him.

Hope knows exactly how lethal the Edged Carbine is in Lightning's hands. He's watched her dispatch numerous enemies as an Army of One, switching between the gun and blade with graceful fluidity. On the field, Lightning lives up to her name in both speed and lethality, yet Hope can barely steady the weapon with two hands.

It's embarrassing.

Hope tries to accept what Sazh told him about not trying to use the gunblade the way Lightning uses it, but to use it however he's comfortable. He does just that, lifting the gunblade with two hands, aiming at a distant target, and firing.

The gunblade has almost no kickback; he'll give it that for free. Hope is pleased to find that his shot managed to hit the outer edge of the target. He did better than he'd have expected, considering it was the first time he'd ever fired the weapon. One thing is certain: Lightning's Edged Carbine is perfectly balanced and aligned. All the moving parts are cleaned and oiled, allowing for smooth transition between the weapon's two modes.

Curious, Hope flicks the switch and yelps when the blade snaps out and almost tears the grip from his hand. _How the hell did Lightning hold onto this thing with one hand?_ Hope repositions his hand to get a better grip on the weapon, but it's just too awkward and heavy for him to hold onto with one hand.

Hope has heard Lightning insist that her gunblade's balance is perfect in both modes, and he has no doubt that she's correct. After all, it's her weapon: she'd know. Still, he finds the 'Edged' part of the Edged Carbine to be unwieldy and uncomfortable. Sazh recommended he stick to the 'Carbine' half of the Edged Carbine, and it appears that once again, his friend was correct.

A flick of the switch retracts the blade, and the weapon is once again manageable for Hope. He still wishes Sazh would give him an extra fifteen minutes to retrieve his Airwing, but Hope understands that Sazh's need to leave is based not on any timetable, but on whatever he heard while he was bearing witness to Snow's torment. Hope is too afraid to ask him what it was. Sazh had already told him that he didn't think Snow would survive, and when he finally smashed his machine to bits, he'd said that he was going to get Lightning out, or die trying. He didn't mention Snow at all.

Snow's not dead. Hope refuses to believe he is, and he won't believe it until he sees Snow's cold, dead body for himself. Even then, Hope might not believe it. Not entirely.

Snow is too tough, and has survived too much to die at the hands of humans. Snow managed to defeat both Shiva sisters by himself. Everyone else in their group had at least one of their companions help them to gain control over their Eidolons. And the rest of them only had to face one Esper. Snow had to face two Espers, do it by himself, and he still managed to get them under control.

And he got a frigging motorcycle out of it too.

Smirking jerkoff.

Snow isn't dead. Hope refuses to allow him to be dead, and Lightning will absolutely kick Snow's ass if he even thinks about dying, so he better get that bullshit idea out of his head right now and be there today when Hope and Sazh show up.

Please.

"Get on board, Hope. SysCheck is done. Flight check is done. All systems are green. We're out of here."

"All right."

Hope walks up the gangway, hits the switch to retract it, closes the hatch and flips the lever down to seal it. He climbs the ladder to the cockpit and sits in the copilot seat.

"Can I fly today?"

"I don't know. Have you tried flapping your arms? I can throw you out of the airlock once we're in flight, and you can let me know if you can fly."

This is their routine. Hope pleads with Sazh to let him fly the airship every time he's aboard, and every time, Sazh comes up with a new, sarcastic way of refusing him. To be fair, Hope doesn't want to fly tonight. The weather is turning, and they have a serious and dangerous mission ahead of them. He's there as an extra set of eyes, and to man the guns if necessary.

Sazh has already promised Hope that he'll teach him to fly The _Oerban Lady_ when he turns 16. That was the deal Sazh made with Hope's dad, and Sazh will not renege on either side of that deal. So, Hope is stuck waiting until he reaches 16 – an arbitrary age chosen by his dad – but his dad will be stuck honoring that arbitrary age once Hope's birthday comes.

_Only three months to go._

"So, what's the plan, Sazh?"

" _That_ is the question," Sazh says, like he's reciting Hamlet instead of outlining their plan for the night.

Hope huffs a sigh. "Is Operation BoomsDay still a go?"

"Oh, Operation BoomsDay is definitely happening. I'm blowing that place right to hell. Then I'm going to send more bombs to hell so I can obliterate it for good. Hell is too good for these fucking monsters."

That's the second F-bomb Sazh has dropped in the past 30 minutes, and Hope is torn between giggling like a six year old, and crying…like a six year old.

Sazh's swearing can only be a sign that he is thinking terrible thoughts.

"Snow's not dead, Sazh. I know he isn't!"

"Kid—"

"No! I don't want to hear it. You don't know him like I know him, and I know—" his voice cracks on the word, and for once, Hope is thankful for the cruelties of puberty as he can use it now to camouflage his anguish. "I know that he's alive."

Sazh slumps in his seat, eyes full of unshed tears. "Hope—"

"I don't want to hear it! There's no way that Light would let Snow just…die. She's there, so he's alive. He's there, so she's alive. I _know_ it. _They wouldn't leave me!"_

Hope turns away and dashes the tears from his face. He hadn't meant to reveal so much of himself just then, but Sazh giving up and accepting Snow's death so easily is too much for Hope. Hope would never speak about his feelings for Snow – hell, he barely acknowledges that he feels anything more than irritation for him – but the truth is, over the last year, Hope has come think of Snow as the older brother he never had but always wanted. And the idea of losing him—

No.

He just can't. Hope can't lose him. He won't. He absolutely refuses to lose him, and the fact that Sazh has written Snow off without a fight—

_Just. No._

Hope is going to get Snow and Lightning back. Then he's going to yell at both of them for scaring him, and making him think he lost them, and after losing Fang and Vanille, too.

After losing his mom.

He can't lose a brother after losing his mother. There's no way that Snow wouldn't come after Hope if he thought he was in trouble. If their situations were reversed, Snow would already be smashing into that camp looking for Hope. He wouldn't be listening to Sazh tell him about how Hope had no chance of surviving what those monsters did to him, so it's time to write him off; too bad, so sad!

Just no!

But of course, Sazh doesn't need Hope to explain these things to him, because he knows all about it. He understands that Light and Snow are Hope's family, because they're his family too! Just like Sazh and Hope are family.

Just like Fang and Vanille are their family, and they're all still grieving and missing them every minute of every day.

"Okay, kid. You're right. They wouldn't leave you, and we're not going to leave them."

_And that is that._

"Right! So what's our plan? How are we getting them out?"

"Well, the Soldier's is going to make for Mah'Habara, which is south."

"So, we'll head for the cavern, and move north along the cliffs to rendezvous?"

"I suppose," Sazh says, laying in a course. "I just wish we had backup that could give her cover by coming in from the north."

"What about the drones?"

"You mean, the one I just smashed? Or the ones that are going to carpet bomb the camp once we pick up the soldier." Hope glares at Sazh until he adds, "And the Hero."

"So, what do we do?"

"Ain't nothing to do, Kid. I can wish for backup all I want, but if wishes were horses then we'd all be eating steak."

" _What?"_

"Nothin'. Just something an old space pirate said once. It stuck with me, is all. Just buckle up, we are a-go for—." The flight computer beeps at Sazh. "What the—? Did you leave the hatch open?" The question sounds like more like an accusation, and Hope responds with anger, denial and maybe a little embarrassment.

"No way!" The denial is automatic, but the truth is, Hope is not anywhere near as sure as he sounds. Did he leave the hatch unlocked? Maybe. He's rushing and distracted, a caustic pool of fear swirling and churning in his gut, eating away at him from the inside out.

Sazh gives him the hairy eyeball from the pilot seat. All parents seem to have some variation of this look. It says, 'Don't lie to me,' and 'I'm disappointed in you,' and 'what was I thinking? I could've had that motorcycle instead of a migraine,' all at once.

"Whatever happened, would you please just go seal it up so we can get out of here?" Sazh says.

Hope isn't any happier with Sazh's easy acceptance. It feels like he's still being accused of screwing up, and even though he may have, he still doesn't like it.

He spits out a, "whatever," and is out of the cockpit before Sazh can respond.

He's wrong, and he knows he's wrong, but he doesn't actually care. Anger and irritation are much easier to cope with than fear and panic, so he's going to continue being wrong if that means that he doesn't have to think about the sounds Snow was making, or if Lightning was subjected to the same or worse treatment.

Stop it. No good can come from thinking about Lightning being hurt, or Snow being dead. Focus on sealing the ship so they can take off and get their friends back.

When Hope gets to the hatch, he forgets to be angry. He forgets that he was annoyed with Sazh and himself, forgets that he was worried about Lightning and Snow. All he feels is ice cold dread.

The hatch isn't just unsealed. It's wide open, and there's no way that he and Sazh left the hatch open after boarding. Hope turns around to yell to Sazh that someone is on board with them when a hand closes over his mouth, and he's dragged backwards.

" _Gotcha."_

* * *

 ~~Original Time: T minus 5 hours, 32 minutes~~  
New Time: T plus 43 minutes

Her chin hits the concrete – a bright spot of hot pain in the cold dark of the garage – and she scrabbles for any sort of purchase against the relentless backward slide. There's nothing to grab onto except the awl, so she clutches onto it, slipping it under her stolen coat, between her cast and her right cuff.

"Gotcha!" Another hand grabs her other ankle, and as she's yanked out from beneath the Skytank, she's flipped onto her back hard enough to knock the wind out of her. The handgun cracks against her tailbone in a painful reminder of its presence. "What do we have here?"

A quick glance around confirms that this man is the only other person in sight. So, he's using the royal 'we' then. What a dick!

"Who are you, then?" A large hand clamps around her throat and lifts her clear off the ground. She clutches at the thick wrist and fingers, digging her jagged nails into the calloused skin hard enough to draw blood. The big man hisses at the sting, tightening his grip on her throat until dark spots appear before her eyes. He drags her face to his and says, "Kitty's got claws. Bad kitty! Looks like you need a trip to the vet."

He smashes her against the rack, locking her left hand in the manacle before she even realizes what's happening. Panicked, she shoves her right hand behind her back, shaking it to get the awl into her hand before it's too late.

She cannot let him get her on this rack. Once both hands are pinned, she's fucked. She needs to get out of here. The bombs are falling, and Snow will be back any minute, and they can't be in this camp while Sazh carpet bombs the place, or they're both going to die. She doesn't want to die strapped to this fucking rack.

The idea of Snow finding her dead on this rack is enough to make her redouble her efforts to get loose.

"Stop squirming," he seethes, trying to snatch her other hand. She feels the awl dislodge from its hiding place and closes her hand in time to feel the metal tip against her fingers. She loosens her grip enough to let it drop through her fingers before closing her fist, and holding on for all she's worth.

"That's it!" He yells, getting a grip on her bandanna and hair, and smashing the back of her head against the rack. Her vision explodes like fireworks, then grays out. There's a hand around her upper arm, maneuvering her hand out from behind her body, and for a terrifying moment, she fears she lost her grip on the awl.

Without thinking, she throws a punch at his gut, and the tip of the awl sinks into him. She pulls it out again as he screams and grabs her wrist.

" _You. Fucking. BITCH!"_ He screams, punctuating each word with a brutal fist to her face, her ribs, her gut. She kicks him in the knee, and he goes down, never relinquishing his hold on her right hand. She kicks again, but he wraps his free arm around both her knees, effectively immobilizing all four of her limbs.

He kneels before her like a supplicant, but he still holds all the power in this confrontation. She tries shaking him off her right hand, but his grip is an iron band, and she knows the only reason she's not yowling in pain is due to the cushioning of the cast. He smashes her hand against the rack over and over again, cursing her with each strike. "Drop it, you fucking cunt!"

The awl clatters to the concrete, causing her attacker to relent in his thrashing. He burbles out a wet sound that mutates into laughter. "Oh, it's over now, girlie. You are going to be so sorry."

She feels him moving again, but she can't see what he's doing. There's a sound of metal on metal, then two clicks and he leans back, pulling and her legs spread out. He looks up at her with a chain in his hand. He secures it, mumbling, "So, so sorry."

Then he turns hate filled eyes to her and shouts, "You're going to be the sorriest piece of ass in this place when I'm through with ya." He gropes for the awl, and pulls himself upright again. "You like sharp objects, do ya?" He leans in, awl pressed against her throat before slipping downward, tracing a suggestive path over her clavicle, breasts, bouncing off each rib and coming to rest just above the waistband of her leggings. "I thought I had fun with the big guy, but you, honey? I'm going to show you a real good time."

* * *

 ~~Original Time: T minus 5 hours, 30 minutes~~  
New Time: T plus 45 minutes

The camp is ablaze. Hope can see the light from the fires on the horizon long before they are close enough for his eyes to resolve the camp itself.

Then he sees the source of the fire, and gulps a nervous swallow despite himself.

"What if they're still in there?" Hope asks. "The fires might trap them."

"If they're still in there, and they're still breathing, then there ain't no way a little fire is going to be a problem for them. Besides, look over there." Sazh points out the port window and Hope spots a group of people trudging southward along the cliff face.

"Well, I'll be damned," Sazh mutters, then he lets out a loud whoop. It takes a few seconds for Hope to figure out what's got Sazh so excited. Then he spots the cause of Sazh's newfound good mood.

"It's him," Hope says.

There's no mistaking the big figure herding the group towards to the northern entrance of Mah'Habara. Hope would recognize that big jerk anywhere.

"Goddamn Hero," Sazh laughs. "Too damn dumb to know when he should just quit. And thank god for that."

Sazh's tone belies the cutting words. Hope can hear the relief, fondness and respect that Sazh will likely never voice. Hope understands: he'll never cop to those feelings either. Snow's insufferable enough already.

"I'm putting her down here. Let's get these fools out of the storm and get Operation BoomsDay underway. What do you say, Kid?"

Hope is out of his seat, through the ship, with his hand on the hatch seal by the time the landing gear is engaged. Eager to see his friends and make sure they're really alright, Hope is halfway out the hatch before the landing gear touches ground.

"Hey! Careful! Wait for the ship to settle before you extend the gangway!" Sazh shouts from the cockpit.

"Sorry!" Hope says without meaning it. He's not sorry at all. His friends are out there, and all Hope wants to do is get out there and make sure that they're okay.

Then he wants payback.

Hope steps out onto the gangway just as the group reaches it. He scans the unfamiliar faces for Lightning. She's not here, he thinks. Terror, anger, grief and confusion wash over him like a tidal wave. Hope meets Snow's eyes, seeking an explanation for Lightning's absence.

He doesn't get one. Instead, Snow points at him and yells, "Hope! Get these women on board, now!" before he turns around and takes off at a full sprint back towards the camp.

"Hey! Where the hell are you going?" Hope yells, angry and confused by Snow's odd behavior.

"He's going back to get Light." Hope spins around, seeking the source of the information and comes face to face with a girl who looks to be about his age.

"Light is okay?"

"Yeah. She was fine a few minutes ago. She was setting the distraction so we could get away. She should be right behind us."

The news relieves and worries Hope in equal measure. Shoving his frustration aside, Hope resigns himself to staying put to help Sazh get the hostages safely aboard the Oerban Lady and wait for Snow and Lightning to join them."Okay. Get on board, everyone. There's blankets and coats inside," Hope says, staring back at the blazing inferno on the horizon.

* * *

Time – without meaning  
Place – Nowhere and Everywhere

Odin is angry. No, that's not right. He's furious.

Odin's rage bleeds out of him, leaks out of the Eidolith against his will and better judgement.

* * *

 ~~Original Time: T minus 5 hours, 27 minutes~~  
New Time: T plus 48 minutes

He reaches for a knife, brings it to her throat, chuckling the whole time. Then he slips the blade beneath the strap of the rifle, and cuts it, letting the rifle clatter to the ground. He slips the knife down, cutting the buttons off of her stolen coat, letting it fall open around her.

"Yes, indeed. You're going to be the sorriest little whore ever, when I'm done with you," he mumbles against her throat.

So, stabbing this guy with an awl was probably not the best idea she'd ever had, but it's not like she has a lot of options.

The fine hairs on Lightning's arms prickle to attention. She feels the building static charge in the atmosphere and finally understands how wrong her assumptions about her Eidolon have been. There's nothing alien about what Odin feels as she struggles with her attacker.

Rage.

The static charge buzzing against her skin and in her mind fills the entire area, not with the smell of ozone, but the metallic taste of adrenaline. Her mouth goes dry; her stomach churns, but it is not her thirst or hunger that she feels.

Odin thirsts for blood and hungers for vengeance. And he means to have it, whether she summons him or not.

It may sound insane, but that doesn't make it less true. Lightning has always known that she and her Eidolon were connected. He's a part of her, just as she is part of him.

 _That is the nature of Gestalt_ , Odin whispers into Lightning's mind.

* * *

 ~~Original Time: T minus 5 hours 26 minutes~~  
New Time: T plus 49 minutes

"All aboard and accounted for, Captain."

"You're a good girl. What's your name again?" Sazh asks.

"Viola. Snow asked me to keep count of everyone to make sure we didn't lose anyone in the storm."

"He's not such a dumbass, after all," Sazh declares. Hope shakes his head.

"I think he's wonderful," Viola says, with a dreamy smile on her face.

Hope rolls his eyes. _Oh, brother!_

* * *

His lady needs him. To hell with honor, and rules. He shall not remain idle as she is disgraced and defiled. Let him be named Outcast Oathbreaker if he must, for he shall embrace the title without shame should it be the cost for defending her. She is his Lady, and he is her Knight, and her life and honor are his to defend. Failure to do so would wound him so deeply that neither magic, nor time could ever right that wrong.

His Warrior Lord summed it up so simply: Odin would do _anything_ for his Lady. He is the Herald of Truth, and that is his ultimate truth.

That is the nature of love.

* * *

 ~~Original Time: T minus 5 hours, 25 minutes~~  
New Time: T plus 50 minutes

Her attacker's mouth disappears from her neck with a roar. There's a flurry of movement, an ungodly racket, and hot liquid splashing across her face. His body goes limp and slides downward only to disappear and fly backwards, crashing into and knocking down a line of Milvus Velocycles.

"Don't you fucking touch her!"

Then Snow's shaking hands cradle her face and throat, cold and comforting and so, so welcome. "God, Girl, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" She gasps for air, but it's difficult to catch her breath, suspended by one arm as she is. She reaches up with her right hand to try and take some of her weight off of her left arm, and therefore her chest, in hopes that she'll be able to suck in a full breath.

"L-Light?" Snow's voice trembles around her name, and it's the only remnant of the tremors that wracked his body only seconds before. He curls one arm around her body and lifts, taking all her weight easily. "I gotcha, baby. It's okay," he breathes. "You're fine. We're okay, now. I got you, and we're going to be just fine, now."

She presses her face into his shoulder, letting his quiet words soothe her while he unshackles her left wrist. Her hand comes loose, and he brings it to his lips to place a kiss on her palm, before closing her fingers around the top bar of the rack. "Hold onto this for a minute. I gotta get your feet. Okay?" She nods.

He drops down to his knees to unchain her legs, and she's moving before her brain engages. The pistol is out, aimed and fired before she can get the words, _'Look out!'_ past her lips.

Their attacker takes two rounds center mass and collapses in a heap against the far wall.

Snow yells in protest, grabbing his ear and turning wide eyes up to her. "Um… _Ow!"_

"Sorry."

He glances behind him at the pile of scumbag bleeding on the far side of the garage. "Yeah, well," he dismisses, continuing his task of freeing her. "Just warn a guy next time, will ya?"

"Sure." She sighs in relief as he finally frees her ankles. "Next time someone is sneaking up on you with a machete, I'll just warn you instead of shooting him."

"Okay, okay," he soothes, standing up and pulling her away from the rack and into his warm embrace. He wraps his arms around her, sighs into her hair, and quips, "No need to be grouchy."

Left hand clinging to his lapel, right hand clutching the still smoking pistol, Lightning relaxes against Snow's body. His heart beats a steady, familiar cadence that does more to calm her than any words could ever manage. "You're late," she whispers into his chest, just to have something to say.

"Uh, no! Excuse me, but I was early. _You_ are late!"

"Yeah, I know." In desperate need of respite, Lightning allows herself this little moment of weakness. She closes her eyes, relaxes into the circle of Snow's arms and sighs, "My hero."

"Hells, yeah, Girl." He tightens his hold on her. "Always."

The revving of an engine startles her out of his arms, and both Snow and Lightning turn horrified gazes at the Skytank. Engines cold, the Skytank remains a silent, looming threat. Out of the corner of her eye, Lightning catches sight of the glow of an engine. She turns her head just in time to see an Aquila Velocycle shoot out of the now open door of the garage, and into and through the fiery inferno of the camp.

Lightning wastes no time talking; she grabs the rifle from where it fell earlier, and turns to give chase.

"Hold up! What do you think you're doing?" Snow grabs for her, but she twists, and dodges him, and chases the Velocycle out into the snow. "What the hell, Light! Don't go out there!"

She drops to one knee, lines up a shot and squeezes the trigger as something hits her in the shoulder and then thigh.

* * *

His lady lay wounded on the field, and still she does not call him to her aid! This is unbearable. Odin can wait no longer. The sky rains down bullets and hellfire around her. Her Lord is pinned down while that Trickster Snake makes of their lady a bloody lure.

It's _intolerable_.

 _Forgive me, Lady_. Odin whispers before roaring his frustration.

* * *

"No! Lightning!" Snow shouts, charging towards her.

"Stay in there," Lightning yells at Snow. She looks through the smoke to see if she made her shot, but there's too much smoke, fire and debris on the field for her to see if she managed to hit the target before the sniper hit her. She turns back to Snow and can see his intentions clear as day. "Damn it! Don't break cover, Snow!"

"You come to me, then!" Snow reaches a hand out and a bullet tears into the snowpack right in front of him, kicking up a shower of ice and dirt. "Fuck!" He punches the wall. "Come on, Light! Come to me!"

Lightning presses herself up onto hands and knees, and the sniper fires three rounds around her. She squeals in frustrated terror and curls up on the ground again, desperate to make herself as small a target as possible.

"Light!" Snow sounds desperate.

"If you step out of cover, we're both dead!" Lightning tells him, knowing it to be true. Another bullet grazes her, tearing a bloody gouge in her side. She screams, "Stay there!" as he screams out a _"NO!"_

"Goddamn it!" He kicks the wall hard enough to rattle the rack.

Lightning takes the opportunity to survey the field. There are a half dozen structural fires inside the camp, and none of them could possibly have been caused by the small explosives she planted outside. The wind blasts downward at her, and Lightning glances upward to see a large – _something_ – flying overhead. Its wingspan easily matches The _Oerban Lady_. She has no idea what the hell she's looking at, but if she were to guess, she'd say 'Holy Shit, it's a Fucking Dragon.'

There are no dragons on Gran Pulse, so that doesn't make any sense.

Just then, the Not-a-Dragon-thank-you-very-much, spits out a fireball, proving that it is, in fact, a Dragon. There's a Goddamn Motherfucking Dragon spitting hellfire at this camp and everyone and everything in it! What the fuck!

She needs to get inside before she's incinerated.

She starts belly crawling only to be reminded of the sniper who, for some reason, doesn't seem fazed by the giant fucking dragon flying overhead and setting the world on fire.

Seriously? These guys have a Havoc Skytank and a _dragon_? That's just overkill.

How did Sazh not mention the dragon? For that matter, how did she miss the dragon when she was following the caravan? A giant, fire-breathing dragon seems hard to miss, no matter how hypothermic she may have been at the time.

And what about Snow, for that matter? How did he miss that these guys had a giant pet dragon? Seems like the sort of thing they'd brag about while they were torturing him.

She and Snow need to do something, _now_. The dragon isn't targeting her, but the sniper sure as hell is, and he's not going to toy with her forever. If Snow doesn't show himself soon, the sniper will just kill her and then wait until Snow makes whatever move he will make. He can't stay in the garage forever.

Especially with a _dragon_ raining down hellfire on the place. Or maybe the sniper will switch out his rifle for rockets. Either way, they need to get out of this clusterfuck right now.

Her head starts spinning. Another couple of minutes, and she's not going to have to worry about much of anything. The wounds in her side and shoulder hurt like a bitch, but they're superficial. The one in her thigh is bleeding far too heavily. The round likely nicked the artery. She's got both hands applying as much pressure as possible, but both her hands, her pants and the ground around her are all saturated in her blood.

Her strength is waning and her vision is going fuzzy.

"Don't you fucking dare even think about it, Lightning!" Snow yells. "I swear to God, I will be right behind you just so I can drive you insane forever. Don't test me!"

Lightning feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Her mind clears enough for her to realize what's about to happen a second before she hears Odin's roar announce his presence on the battlefield.

"Finally! What took you so long, you creep!" Snow yells, before something hits the snow beside her. A mix of ice and snow splashes her face and neck, but she doesn't have time to complain. She hears Snow repeating the words, "Grab it," over and over.

Lightning peels her eyes open in an attempt to figure out what the hell Snow is talking about. Odin is kneeling in the snow beside her, shield held aloft between her and sniper nest above. As long as she remains where she is, she should be safe.

Unless the sniper changes position. Damn it.

"Grab. The Fucking. Chain. Lightning!" She reaches out, wraps the loop of chain around her wrist and immediately is yanked into cover by Snow.

Snow wastes no time wrapping his scarf around her thigh as a tourniquet.

"This is gonna hurt," he says as he pulls the knot tight. She screams in pain, ears full of his tender apologies and angry invectives. Snow's hands are on her face, cold and comforting, and his lips are on her lips, warm and wonderful. "You're going to be okay, Light," he promises as her vision grays out. A sharp sting on her cheek drags her back to full consciousness. "Stay awake!" He orders, voice shaking with terror.

"Did you just slap me?"

"You deserved it. Getting yourself fucking shot. _Goddamn it!_ You knew there might be a sniper up there!"

"Is this seriously the time for a lecture?"

"No time like the present, since it doesn't look like we have a whole lot of future to look forward to," he says. "What the fuck is pissing fire down on us, by the way?"

 _A Dragon._ "I don't know." _Liar!_ "Something big and deadly. And it's spitting fire, not pissing it."

He raises a questioning eyebrow at her, and she nods in acknowledgment of her distinction without a difference.

"Fan _fucking_ tastic," he grumbles. "You're losing too much blood!" Snow looks over at Odin and yells, "Hey! Get over here and heal her!"

Odin has Zantetsuken in his hand, and looks ready to clear the field by himself, but one glance towards Snow and her, and he's sheathing his sword and dropping beside them.

Lightning wants to send him after the one that escaped, but her head is spinning, and she knows that it would be foolish — not to mention suicidal — to refuse healing right now.

Odin places his hand on her chest and pours healing magic through her body. It's nothing like the last time he touched her like this. There's no pain, only the cool relief of open wounds knitting together again. Her thigh still throbs, and she wonders if the bullet is still inside her, before realizing that her leggings have two gaping holes in them: one entrance wound, and one exit wound.

"You all right?" Snow asks before unwrapping the scarf to see for himself. His fingers touch the newly healed skin of her leg and she shivers. A slow smirk spreads across his lips before he glances up and winks at her. He wraps his scarf around her leg again to cover up the holes in her pants. "All better."

He stands up, grabs her beneath her arms and lifts her to her feet. Her leg buckles beneath her, and it's only his arms around her that save her from falling flat on her ass again.

"Not quite yet." She tests her leg again, favoring it enough to keep her feet. "But I'll be okay."

"Go get that fucking sniper," Snow says, and Lightning can't help but wonder how the hell he expects her to do that when she's dizzy from blood loss, and her leg is still weakened from having two holes torn through the muscles.

Then Odin disappears out the door of the garage, and Lightning is torn between feeling stupid and confused. "Since when does he listen to you?"

"Don't know. Don't care," Snow murmurs before his mouth descends on hers. Their teeth clack together once, before he cups her jaw and turns her head, then it's all perfect. "Don't do that again," he whispers against her lips, before slipping his tongue into her mouth. She moans around his tongue, and melts into his embrace for long moments.

Another explosion outside reminds her that they're about to burn to death if they don't escape this garage. What the hell is she doing standing here making out with Snow while the world is ending around them? She pulls away from the kiss and her leg almost folds beneath her again, only this time, it's not because of the bullet wound. Both knees have turned to water, and her whole body is hot and tingly.

"You okay?" Snow asks through a shit-eating grin. He knows exactly what he just did. Bastard!

"Don't look at me like that!" She turns away from him to try and pull herself together again.

"Like what?" She can hear his smug grin. She knew it! Whether it's a word or not, Snow is somehow smugger. She whips around and _there it is!_ His smug-ass grin is definitely _smugger_.

"Like you're just so _pleased_ with yourself." Snow laughs at her then reaches up to trace his thumb over her bottom lip, drawing a small, involuntary gasp from her. He grunts out a tiny, pleased sound, and she feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to plant her fist right in his stupid, sexy smirk.

_Jerk._

She bats his hand away and glares at him. He leans down again—

A loud bang on the roof of the garage destroys the mood.

* * *

When his Warrior Lord issues the command to retrieve the Trickster Snake, Odin feels a deep satisfaction. It has been too long since Zantetsuken dispatched the wicked; too long since Odin faced down an enemy on the field of battle.

The Sniper nest looms high above. The distance separating Odin from his quarry is peppered with a variety of enemies.

Odin smiles as he brings Zantetsuken to bear. One swipe and the long barrel of the turret clatters to the ground. Odin raises his hand and calls forth Thundaga, sending the spell into everything — man and machine — within his range.

Odin's range is vast indeed.

Odin's spellcasting does its job. The delicate circuitry within the complex machines ceases functioning, scorched by the powerful electrical charge. The central nervous systems of the men operating the machines fair no better.

Machines. Always humans and their machines of death.

Humans build machines to deliver death, and so Odin grants them their hearts' desire. If death is what they seek, then death is what they shall have.

Hellfire incinerates the building that had served as the prison. Odin considers the source of the fire, making long, languorous sweeps high above the camp, determines that it presents no immediate threat, and then turns his attention back to the raging inferno of the prison. For a moment, Odin laments its destruction, for he longed to unleash his own rage upon it. It is a blight upon this world, and must be destroyed utterly to prevent its poison spreading.

Something strikes Odin's helmet with a surprising amount of force. Odin reaches up and pulls the offending object from where it embedded in his armor.

The small lump of metal looks so innocuous in Odin's massive hand, but Odin felt his Lady's pain as ones just like it tore a hole through her leg, and ripped furrows across her hip and shoulder.

Odin turns his gaze upward, concentrates all his loathing on his prey. Odin runs for the cliff face, stopping only briefly at the bottom to map the fastest path up the side. He leaps, grabs an outcropping about a quarter of the way up the cliff to the sniper nest.

It is a matter of moments before he pulls himself over the ledge, and he's immediately inundated with a bullet storm. The sniper — the Trickster Snake — has dropped his rifle in favor of a shotgun. It's no matter; this weapon may be ideal for dealing with threats at close range, but no human firearm will penetrate the armor gifted to Odin by Etro herself. This Trickster Snake lost the moment he dared strike Odin's Lady, and sealed his fate the moment he squeezed his rifle's trigger, for even if Odin could forgive his transgression, Odin's Warrior Lord never would.

"What the hell are you?" The Trickster Snake yells. He quakes in terror.

Oh, how Odin yearns for the lifeblood of this Trickster Snake, but his Lord ordered him to 'get' the Sniper. As Odin is oath bound to follow the commands of his Lady's Lord, he must obey.

No matter how disappointing Odin finds his task.

"Don't fucking touch me, you freak," yells the Snake, before hurling itself at Odin in an attempt to strike a blow with its daggers.

Odin snatches the Trickster from the ground before it can land a blow.

Odin will never understand humans. _Ever_.

* * *

Snow grabs Lightning and drags her against the wall, pressing down on her shoulder until she kneels. "Get under the tank, Light."

"What?"

"Don't argue with me! Just get under there!"

She slaps his hand away and rises to her full height. Grabbing a machete from where it hangs on the wall, Lightning readies herself to face the new threat.

Odin drops down from the roof, sniper squirming in his grip.

"Oh, for—!" Snow throws his hands up and shakes his head before turning to her and muttering, "I told you he was a creep." Louder, he says, "Good job. You brought him back alive." Cracking his knuckles, Snow steps closer to Odin's defiant prisoner. He's all menace when he leans in and says, "Now I can kill him."

"Snow—"

"Forget it, Light. This guy's done."

"We need information."

"This guy shot you! I don't care what he has to say."

"We need to know about that dragon, Snow!"

"Dragon?" Snow looks up at the roof of the garage. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" He shakes his head and shouts, "No! I don't care about the fucking dragon. This guy is done. He shot you. Three times!"

"Tie him up," Lightning orders, though she's not sure who she's ordering. Odin? The idea of him tying up a prisoner is ridiculous. She can't believe he's actually taken a prisoner instead of just slicing him to pieces or frying him with magic. And Snow has made his position clear: he's not interested in taking prisoners. He wants payback.

She wants payback too, but she's not going to murder an unarmed, kneeling man, and she's not going to let Snow do it, either. That's not who they are.

She stalks over to the wall and pulls a rope off of it, intent on tying up their prisoner herself. "That's Jace's coat, and I can only assume that was his rifle," the prisoner says. "What a jackass he was. Didn't even bother securing his weapon, or you, before he tried to ride your ride, am I right?"

Lightning freezes, eyes wide and Snow plucks the rope out of her hand, stepping between her and the kneeling prisoner. "Don't fucking talk to her. On second thought, don't even look at her." Snow ties a slipknot then pulls both the prisoner's hands behind his back and binds them, and begins wrapping the rope around his upper body.

"Unbelievable! I mean, you were unconscious, and he still couldn't manage not to fuck up. That idiot never could control himself."

Snow kicks the guy onto his stomach. "I told you to shut up! Do you think I'm playing?"

"I think you're an idiot," their prisoner tells Snow. "She's who you took that beating for? I don't get it. What is it? A trick pelvis?"

Snow lifts the guy up and shoves him back onto his face. _Hard_. Hard enough that Lightning hears his nose break from fifteen feet away.

"I told you not to talk to her. I told you not to look at her. Did you think I was kidding?" Snow pulls the guy back up to his knees and ties his feet as well. "Now I'm telling you not to talk _about_ her. As far you're concerned, she doesn't exist."

"Snow—"

"Fuck this guy. You don't want him dead. Fine. But he better shut the fuck up, or I'm going to shut him up."

"So, what did you do to Jace?" The prisoner says, as if he isn't tied up, bleeding, and being threatened with severe bodily injury by a very large, pissed off Snow.

"I choked him out and then bashed his brains in. Want a demonstration?" She really doesn't want Snow to hit him again right now. Anger rolls off Snow in waves, and she's afraid he's going to lose it completely and break the guy's neck. Not that their prisoner doesn't deserve to die, but the scumbag who tortured Snow got away, and Lightning has a sneaking suspicion both that he was the asshole in charge, and that this guy knows where he went. She steps over to the tool bench and snatches a rag off it.

"So, it _is_ a trick pelvis," the guy says, obviously enjoying riling Snow up. It's clear he'd rather be dead than captured, but Lightning doesn't care. He's got information and she wants it. Then, Sazh and the colonists can have him. Someone ought to answer to them for the atrocities of this group.

"That's it!" Snow reaches for the prisoner's throat, but Lightning steps between Snow and his would-be victim. She kneels down and gets right up in the guy's face. Zantetsuken moves ever so slightly – a warning and threat – coming to rest against the nape of the prisoner's neck.

"Don't think I forgot that you're the one who knocked me out and left me there for your rapist buddy—"

"Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me!"

"So you're going to do what he says, and shut up, before he kills you."

"No, he's done. What did he hit you with?" She hears Snow rifling through the tools. "How about a hammer?"

"It was the butt of my rifle." The guy says it like he's proud. "Right in the temple. She dropped like a stone. Didn't you, honey pot?"

"You _motherf_ —"

Lightning cuts Snow off with a wave of her hand, ignores the bait, and leans in close enough that even Odin has to strain himself to hear her words. "That man who you're goading doesn't kill unarmed prisoners. He's better than that, and he's going to stay that way." She whispers directly into his ear, "You're not worth the filth he scrapes off his boots, and that's how he's going to stay: a good man."

She pulls on the lapels of the prisoner's jacket under the pretense of straightening it out, knowing that the coat and ropes are pressing on fresh bruises in the worst possible ways. Then she brushes imaginary lint off his shoulders, rubbing more injuries. "But let me just clue you in here: I have no problem killing you, stepping over your dead body, and going on my merry way. And when I close my eyes at night, I'll sleep like a baby and never give you a second thought. Except maybe to feel that warm, fuzzy feeling I get when I know the world has just one less monster around to prey on innocent people. You get me?"

She shoves a dirty rag into his mouth, then coils a length of rope around his head and ties it off. "So _shut up!_ " She claps him on the back hard enough to send him face first to the floor. She grabs onto the rope to stop him breaking his nose all over again.

"That's better!" She says in the fakest, bright, cheery voice she's ever mustered. Then she whispers into his ear: "Welcome to your nightmare. I think I'm going to like it."

She stands up straight, looks at Odin and says, "Clear the field and cut us a path. We're getting out of here."

* * *

Snow hooks her arm, pulls her to the far side of the garage and says, "Now what? We can't exactly stroll out of here, especially since you want a prisoner."

"Snow, that guy who got away—"

"I know, Light. All right? I know that he's the 'Boss.' I ought to."

"I'm sorry." She hates that she's hurting him even though she's trying so hard to be careful with him.

"Don't…don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong," Snow insists. That's not even remotely true, but Lightning doesn't want to argue against herself right now. She has a feeling they're going to fight about her breaking her word to him at some point later on, and she'd rather wait until then to deal with this issue.

"Well, we have to figure out where he went," Lightning insists.

"I told you before we left that we'd settle our scores after we got out of here. Did you think I was kidding?"

"How are we going to do that if we don't know where to find him? I don't want to give him a chance to hurt more people!"

"I know. I don't either. You're right. That doesn't mean I have to like the fact that we're taking this guy with us. He shot you! He hit you! He helped someone else _hurt_ you!"

"I'm fine." Even to her, that answer sounds pale.

"Thanks to the creep, you're fine. But if he weren't here, you'd have bled to death out there!"

"Snow—"

"I just want to get the fuck out of here!" He explodes. She can see that he's on the edge, and she doesn't want to push him anymore. "So, what's the plan now? Did you plant the bombs?"

She heaves a sigh bigger than her. "I got—"

"Captured?"

She tries for diplomacy. "Sidetracked."

"That fucker!" So much for diplomacy. "Did he hurt you?"

"No." Snow cups her jaw and runs his finger along the fresh bruise on her cheek. "Nothing worse than a few bruises, Snow. I stabbed and shot him."

Snow snorts a laugh, shakes his head and says, "That's my girl," with such fondness that she can't help but lean in for a quick kiss.

The building shakes as a fireball hits far too close. Outside, they can hear screaming and someone yells, "Get the Skytank and shoot that thing out of the air!"

Are they talking about the _Oerban Lady_ or the dragon?

Scrambling for her pack, Lightning gropes for the bombs inside it. Snow stills her hand and points to the Havoc Skytank. "Oh, I _hate_ this idea!"

"What idea?" But she picks up on his train of thought before she finishes the question. _"Oh!"_

"Yeah," Snow sounds dejected.

" _Hell yeah!"_

"This is gonna suck," Snow says with finality.

* * *

Snow drags the prisoner up into the Skytank and drops him on the floor. The guy yells 'ouch' from behind his gag and Snow smiles at him. "Oops! I'm sorry. Let me help you up."

He pulls the guy up only to drop him again.

"Snow!" she scolds. She doesn't really care. The guy isn't going to die from getting bumped around a bit. Snow just shrugs at her and takes the gunner seat.

"Did you plant the bombs?"

"Yeah. They're on the fuel reserve," she answers, fingers running over the controls to expedite a startup. "This place is going to explode like a volcano."

"Great," Snow says with fake enthusiasm. "Let's just make sure we're long gone before that happens, okay?"

"Get your communicator out of my pack and buckle yourself in. This is gonna be bumpy." She doesn't mention the fact that she has no idea what the hell she's doing. He's already unhappy about this new plan of action.

"Who am I calling?"

_Seriously?_

"Who do you think? Call Sazh!"

"All right! No need to be grumpy! Sheesh!" Then he looks at the communicator, and says, "Am I supposed to have any idea what Sazh's number is?"

"Give that to me," she snaps, snatching the communicator out of his hand and dialing the code for the _Oerban Lady_.

She throws the communicator back at Snow, only to have him squawk out an, "easy on the merchandise!" Then: "Hope? Yeah, it's me. Who the hell else would it be? All right! Don't be bitchy." He mumbles, "Teenagers!" before saying, "Hope wants to talk to you."

"Are you kidding me right now?" She finishes running through the preflight checks and grabs the tank controls.

She hates tank controls. They are the fucking worst.

"She's busy right now, Hope." She can hear Hope bitching at Snow, and she just knows what's coming: "He _really_ wants to talk to you."

Yep. That's about exactly what she figured he'd say.

"Fine. Gimme that," she snaps, yanking the communicator out of Snow's hand. "Hold on one second, Hope. Hit that button over there, Snow. No, not that one. Don't touch that one!"

"Which button?" She knows what he's doing, but she's not interested in arguing with him. He's in a better mood right now, and she'd like to keep him that way. She has a feeling his mood is going to sour once he realizes exactly how bad she is at flying.

Plus, they may die at any minute. There's still a dragon out there, after all.

"Never mind." She stretches across Snow's lap and he makes a pleased sound and runs his hand over her rear end. She raises an eyebrow at him and whispers, "For real?"

"Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm just a man. I can only take so much."

"Uh huh. You're not 'just' an anything, Hero. You're not fooling me."

'Mm," he hums, before sliding his hand down the back of her thigh and letting his fingers slip into the hole in her pants. His calluses scratch over the soft skin of her inner thigh, raising goosebumps all over her body. "What was that?"

"Stop it," she orders and shifts over to unlock the controls for the targeting computer and scope. "The cannon is being primed."

"It sure is," he says, leaning in and planting a soft kiss on the nape of her neck. She huffs out a laugh but shrugs him off.

God, he feels good. He needs to stop if he wants to get out of this place. She sits back in her seat and buckles herself in. "Put Sazh on the phone, Hope."

"Are you okay, Light?" _What did he hear?_ "Is Snow really okay?"

"Yeah, we're okay. A little beat up, maybe, but we're both okay and are looking forward to getting out of this barbecue."

"I can't believe you guys are still in there!"

"Well, we're about to leave, but I need to make sure you guys don't shoot us as we're leaving."

"What's this nonsense about us shooting you, Soldier?"

"I'm bringing you a present, Sazh!"

"No thanks! I don't think I can handle any more surprises today. Keep your present, Soldier!"

"Oh, so you don't want this Havoc Skytank, then?"

"…Oh, _hell yeah_ , I want that Skytank!"

"Okay, well just make sure you don't shoot us, okay. Don't bomb anything until we get out of here!"

"Did you actually think I was going to bomb anything before you were clear?"

"That was the plan!"

"That was your plan. My plan involved not being a crazy person."

"Everything bad I said about you: I take it all back, Sazh," Snow says.

"Good!" Sazh mumbles. Then: "Hey, wait a minute! What the hell were you saying about me?"

"Um. Nothing?"

"Dumbass," Sazh mumbles. "Here. Talk to the Soldier."

"Here. Talk to Hope," Lightning says, holding the communicator out towards Snow. Snow snatches the communicator and puts it down between them, leaving the line open.

"Sorry, Kid, but we don't have time to chat right now. We're a little busy trying not to die."

"Just…be careful."

"You got it. Take it easy, Kid. We'll see you in a few minutes."

Lightning pulls back on the yoke and the tank lifts off the landing gear to hover. She hits the button to retract the landing gear, pleased that she didn't forget that little detail like she did that one time that she'll never mention to anyone ever. She would never hear the end of it from any of them if she crashed before she even got out of the garage.

She gives it some throttle and they shoot out of the garage with enough speed to reach the perimeter fence in seconds. Turret fire pelts them as they break through the fence, and hellfire rains down from above.

"Rocket fire! Rocket fire!" Snow babbles. "Light, that guy has a rocket launcher!"

"I see him," Lightning says and manages to pull out of the path of the rocket before it hits the windscreen. They're going to get killed if she doesn't put some distance between them and the firepower in the camp.

She crashes through a snowbank, rocking the tank and sending their prisoner flying into the starboard bulkhead. Snow sounds nervous when he asks, "Um, are you sure you can pilot this beast, Light?"

Just figured that out, did he? "No."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean, when have you ever seen me pilot anything, Snow?"

"Uh. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all."

"Shut up!"

"Want me to try?"

"Sure. I'll just put this Pig in park while the turrets and rockets are firing at us. Not to mention, the fucking Dragon!"

"Okay. Point taken."

"Maybe you could, I don't know, fire one of our weapons at some of these guys? That might help!"

"I don't know what I'm looking at."

"See the scope?" She points at the scope that she set up for him while he was grabbing her ass. "Look through it."

"Yeah, yeah," he gripes. "No need to get all snippy with me."

"Now line the crosshairs up with something—"

"I know how to aim—"

"Preferably a turret. Or the dragon."

"Don't shoot the dragon," Sazh insists. "The dragon is on our side."

"What?" Lightning asks, completely befuddled.

"Where'd you get a dragon, Sazh?" Snow asks. "Why didn't you mention that you had a pet dragon to Lightning before you sent her into this camp without any backup except for a bomb strapped to her body?"

"…The dragon is a new addition to the crew," Sazh says.

"How'd you get a dragon to join your crew, Sazh?" Snow asks, undoubtedly just to piss off Sazh.

"You really are a dumbass, aren't you, Hero?"

"Will you two shut up?! I'm trying to concentrate here. Piloting is your thing, Sazh. My thing is killing things with a gun or blade, or preferably, a gunblade!"

She wishes she was fighting alongside Odin, Edged Carbine in hand, instead of flying – scratch that: just barely not crashing – this Skytank.

Hope chimes in with: "I have your Edged Carbine here, Light!"

"Yeah? Thanks, Hope!" Finally, some good news. Lightning swerves the tank to avoid another Velocycle and nearly smashes into the cliffs again.

"Can we all concentrate, here? So, I'm going to shoot this thing."

"Just point at anything but the _Oerban Lady_ and apparently, the dragon, and hit the big red button, Snow."

"You know what? Just try not to fly us into a cliff, please!"

"Just worry about yourself!" she yells, and pulls out of the spin just before the tank scrapes the cliff face. Snow manages to blow the Velocycle right off the face of Gran Pulse. "Nice shot!"

"Hey, I'm more than just a pretty face," he boasts. She turns to him to find him beaming at her from the other seat. Her heart trips over itself on its way up to her throat, and she can feel the blush spread from her face down her body. The smirk on his face and sparkle in his blue eyes drives her crazy.

God, she loves him, and she has no idea what to do with this feeling now that they're out of that camp. Nothing has changed and yet, everything is different.

"Hey, Soldier? Are you and that dumbass hero clear yet?"

"Real nice, Sazh!"

"All clear," she assures him, feeling much more confident now that she can hold a straight course and not crash into any cliffs or settlements for miles and miles and miles.

"Alright, keep moving away from the camp. Operation BoomsDay is a go."

"Wait! Operation what?" Lightning squeaks, and Snow guffaws at the ridiculous name.

Lightning hears the explosions start up, and can see the blast from the fuel tank erupting high into the sky, sending up a plume of fire, smoke and ash. Just like the volcano she'd promised Snow.

A new voice breaks in on the line. "Aw. And I was just getting started."

Lightning and Snow look at each other with confusion.

"Who said that?" Snow asks her.

Lightning shakes her head and the voice on the communicator starts laughing.

Lightning grabs the communicator and snaps: "Is this some sort of sick joke?"

"What's a matter, sunshine? Don't tell me you forgot me already? And here I was thinking we were friends."

"Look out!" Snow yells, pointing out the front of the Skytank. Lightning curses herself, then banks hard to port and brakes, hitting the landing gear to avoid crashing into the ground. The tank turns just in time to avoid crashing into the giant beast that chose to land directly in front of them.

The prisoner hits the back of Lightning's seat hard enough to make her grunt. She hopes the guy isn't dead, but there's nothing to be done for it now. Lightning gets up and the Skytank shifts on the snow, pitching her forward. Snow reaches out and grabs her, pulling her onto his lap to wait for the vehicle to settle.

"Nice flying, Girl," he whispers to her, and she shakes her head. "No, seriously. We're still alive. We didn't crash. And the Skytank is in one piece. I call that a total win."

She looks at him and he brushes a kiss over her lips when something starts banging on the hatch.

"Oi! Hero? Sunshine? You two still alive in there? Want to open this beast up and let us in? It's a bit nippy out here."

"Maybe you should've worn some pants. And sleeves," Snow says, standing up to open the hatch. "See? What do you expect, wearing those outfits in the middle of a goddamn blizzard? Get in here before you two freeze to death!"

Two ghosts walk onto the Havoc Skytank, and for the first time since before the Purge, Lightning feels like maybe she could fit into this new world that she helped save, after all.

* * *

 **T** **ime to Murder and Create  
** **Coda: Operation BoomsDay**

 ~~Original Time: T minus 6 hours 26 minutes~~  
New Time: T minus 11 minutes

Hope struggles against the arm across his body, fingers prying at the hand over his mouth as he hears the word, "Gotcha" whispered in his ear. Then, "Guess who?"

Hope has heard this sweet voice in his dreams so often over the past year that Hope can't bring himself to believe that it's real.

"Ah, Vanille, give the kid a break. He looks like he's seen a ghost." Hope spins around and there they are. "Oi! Funny Man! Get your ass down here! We have some planning to do."

There's a racket from the cockpit as Sazh comes barreling down the ladder. Hope almost chuckles when Sazh slips on the top rung. Fang and Vanille both panic and grab him before he hits the ground. "Well, I never thought I'd say this, you crazy woman, but I've sure missed the hell out of you!"

"Aw! Ain't that sweet, Vanille? I always said you were my very favorite, Sazh!"

That's all it takes for Sazh to open his arms wide and let Fang and Vanille step into the circle of his embrace.

Fang reaches out and catches Hope by the collar and drags him over. "Get your ass over here, Kid! Don't you know a group hug when you see one?"

That's all the invitation Hope needs before he grabs onto his long lost friends and holds on for dear life.

* * *

 ~~Original Time: T minus 6 hours 24 minutes~~  
New Time: T minus 9 minutes

"I don't want to seem ungrateful and all, but how the hell did you two get here?" Sazh asks.

"That's way too long a story to get into right now. Let's just concentrate on saving the Hero and our resident Martyr, shall we? Once we have them back, the six of us can have a nice, long cry over how happy we are to be together again!"

"Fang," Vanille chides.

"What, Vanille? I'm just saying, is all!"

"You're impossible."

"Goddamn, but I missed you, Woman!"

"Yeah, well, we missed you all too," Fang replies, and she sounds completely sincere. "It wasn't the same as last time."

"What do you mean?" Hope asks.

"The last time when we went into crystal stasis, it felt like it was over. Like we were done," Vanille explains. She takes Hope's hand and laces their fingers together, and Hope feels his heart swell at the sweet gesture. God but he missed this woman! "This time…I don't know."

Hope finds himself wondering if maybe this time, things might be different for him and Vanille. She'd only been back for ten minutes, but he cannot imagine losing her again.

"It felt like we'd left something behind," Fang supplies.

"Yeah, we all missed you guys, too!" Hope says. "Even Snow missed you!"

"Speaking of the Hero, are we sure he's okay? I have a bad feeling. Like someone was screaming for help, but it doesn't seem to be you two."

"It was Lightning," Vanille says. "She woke us up, begging for help."

"Oh, yeah. Remind me to tell her to keep it down next time. She can't go screaming into the abyss like that without expecting the abyss to scream right back at her. Wake the dead she will, making that bloody racket."

"Fang!"

"What? I'm just saying, is all!"

"Crazy woman!" Sazh mumbles. "Well, we're heading to rescue the Soldier right now."

"And Snow," Hope insists. "I told you: Snow is not dead."

"Dead?" Fang and Vanille share a look, before Fang continues: "Looks like we really were needed, love. What's the plan, then?" Fang asks.

* * *

 ~~Original Time: T minus 6 hours, 17 minutes~~  
New Time: T minus 2 minutes.

"Right, so Vanille and I will come in from the North, and you'll head south to pick up our resident martyr and the Hero."

"How are you planning to draw their attention?"

"Leave that to me," Fang says, a slow smirk spreading across her face. "I have an old friend who's gonna give us a ride." She turns to Vanille, raises her eyebrow and asks, "You in, love?"

* * *

 ~~T minus 6 hours 15 minutes~~  
Time = 0 minutes to Launch

_**Operation BoomsDay is a Go** _

* * *

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming next: Chapter 16: Do I Dare to Eat a Peach? - Adult Content Ahoy!  
> Chapter 17 - An Overwhelming Question (Conclusion of DIDDTU)
> 
> Lightning isn't the only one who hates tank controls! They are the absolute worst!  
> If wishes were horses, we'd all be eating steak is a quote from Jayne in Firefly.
> 
> Feedback is love  
> A/N: This chapter is heavy on dialogue, and very light on dialogue tags. I tried to make sure it was clear who was speaking by the context, and through sporadic usage of dialogue tags. It just gets very repetitive and boring reading/writing Snow says/Lightning says, He says/she says, etc. If it's too confusing, let me know in the comments and I will edit the chapter for clarity. I'd rather have some boring dialogue tags, than completely confuse my readers. I've read it and re-read it and I think it's clear, but since I'm the one who wrote it, it's difficult to say for sure. I can't really read it from a reader's POV, only from the writer's POV.


	16. Do I Dare to Eat a Peach?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow has something he needs to get off (his chest); Lightning needs (to hear) it.
> 
> If Time to Murder and Create was the Climax of the main plotline, then this chapter is just a climax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be in my bunk. You might consider retreating to your bunk as well. 
> 
> Definitely NSFW. This is the first time I've posted anything like this. Hell, it's the first time I've ever written anything like this. What's this, you ask? Unapologetic smut.
> 
> Enjoy!

“But when a woman decides to sleep with a man, there is no wall she will not scale, no fortress she will not destroy, no moral consideration she will not ignore at its very root: there is no God worth worrying about.”  
― Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

Chapter 16  
Do I Dare to Eat a Peach?

Four nights after Operation BoomsDay – and no, Hope, six year olds shouldn’t get to name airstrikes on terrorist bases, _thank you very much!_ – Lightning sits alone in her quarters. The past several days are a blur in her mind, a mishmash of conversations and activities that have left her feeling both strung out and wrung out.

She spent the first thirty-six hours sleeping in the infirmary, and the subsequent six hours in a chair beside Snow’s bed, waiting for him to open his eyes again. In that time, Sazh had been hard at work procuring living quarters in New Eden for Lightning, Snow, Fang and Vanille, plus several of the survivors they’d rescued. Sazh and Fang have also retrieved the Snow Kat from where Lightning had stashed it north of the ash pile that had been the terrorist camp.

In the two days since they left the infirmary, Lightning hasn’t seen or spoken with Snow _at all_. She barely noticed the first day, but today, she realized that he has been actively avoiding her. She knows that she shouldn’t be bothered; after all, what else could she expect? Things said and done under the looming specter of imminent death are often impulsive and foolish. Now that they have returned to their lives, it’s no surprise to her that Snow would long to return home and resume his life with Serah.

That’s what Lightning wanted him to do, after all. So why does she feel like she’s going to throw up her own heart any second?

Tonight, she just wasn’t up for pretending that everything’s fine. She turned in right after dinner, begging off drinks with Sazh and Fang in favor of a painkiller and cup of tea. The niggling pain that had spent days flirting with the real estate behind Lightning’s right eye, finally committed, moved in, and set up shop as a blinding migraine.

Lightning isn’t prone to headaches, so she can only assume that the nearly two weeks of stress, injury, exhaustion, trauma, and – _oh yeah_ – a rifle butt to the head, are the cause of her misery. She just wanted a nice, peaceful evening where she could take a hot shower, nurse her headache, and try to get a decent night’s sleep.

By 10:30 pm, the shower, painkiller and tea had managed to file the edges off the hot spike jammed through her brain into her eye, leaving only a ghost of a migraine haunting Lightning’s sore head. She’d figured that a good night’s sleep would exorcise the headache once and for all, so she’s just killing the lights in her kitchenette when she hears a soft knock at the door.

Lightning glances at the clock – 10:38 pm – and feels dread pool in her stomach. What could possibly have gone wrong that someone showed up so late—?

She’s not sure why she’s surprised that it’s Snow at her door, when he’s the only person who has ever turned up inappropriately late on her doorstep, yet somehow, she still stands in stunned silence.

“Hey,” he says, and she replies with an equally unhelpful, “Hey.”

Oh, this is going to be a real treat, she can tell already. If she had any sense at all, she’d slam the door and yell, _‘no one’s home,’_ through it.

“Can I come in?”

She glances behind her, as if the empty apartment might have objections. The living room, of course, has nothing useful to contribute whatsoever. Its emptiness stares back at her as if to say: _why are you looking at me?_

When she finishes her desperate search for meaning from the empty space behind her, she looks back at Snow to find him rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh, if this isn’t a good time—“

“No, it’s fine. Come on in,” she says, and immediately wonders what the fuck is up with her. Why does everything feel so awkward?

Snow steps over the threshold, but chooses not to divest himself of his coat as he had done _that night._ So, not staying then. Just a quick drop in to ruin her night.

Wonderful.

“Do you want a drink?” She has a sneaking suspicion that she, at least, is going to need one. Or five.

“No, I’m—“, he begins, and just _never finishes the thought_. 

_Not staying, confirmed._

“ _Oh_ -kay?” She drags out the first syllable in an attempt to convey her confusion. He remains silent for a long, uncomfortable moment.

This is stupid; _they’re_ stupid. They’re acting like awkward idiots, and she has no idea how to make it stop. She decides to go get herself a glass of water, just to have something to do other than stand here, staring over Snow’s shoulder into the middle distance. Snow trails after her as she walks into the kitchen.

“What’s on your mind?” Snow heaves a huge sigh behind her, and Lightning turns around to find him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you okay?”

“Are we really going to do this?” 

_Huh?_

“Do what?” He huffs again, and _okay, what?_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Snow mutters. It’s like they’re having two different conversations with people who aren’t one another, and aren’t even in the room. Possibly while speaking different languages. She’s not sure about that yet.

Lightning’s speeding past confused and hurtling towards _pissed off._ “Well, maybe just spit it out, then.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he snaps, and it’s like being gut-punched. Did he seriously come here to tell her that he didn’t want to deal with her anymore?

“Well, _there’s the door_.” She points at the door to emphasize how very much she would like him to leave. “Have a good night,” she declares with finality, proud that she managed to keep her tone even and devoid of any trace of hurt. She strolls past him to head to her bedroom, deliberately snapping the kitchen light off to leave him in the dark.

“No, that’s—“, he throws both hands up as she walks past, _“Unbelievable!”_ She hears him following after her before he says, “That’s not what I meant!”

She whips around and demands, “Well, what did you mean, then?”

“I meant,” he exhales, and gropes around for the right words: “I’m tired of this! Why do you make everything so _difficult?_ I’m tired of fighting _all the time!”_

She recoils with a small gasp, mouth opening in a shocked ‘O’. He couldn’t have stunned her more if he’d slapped her across the face. _That’s supposed to be better?_ Something of her hurt must show on her face, because he puts his hands up in front of him in the universal gesture for _I surrender, please don’t kill me,_ shakes his head and says: “No-no-no,” like it’s one word. Then: “No, wait. Wait. No! That’s…that’s not… _damn it_!” He rubs his hand over his face, forehead, then rakes it back through his hair in obvious frustration.

She can feel her unhappiness tugging at the corners of her mouth and she looks down at her feet instead of at him. 

“Oh, _no._ That’s not—“, he closes the distance between them, puts his hand on her shoulder. “Light,” he says, and he sounds as wounded as she feels. She keeps her eyes fixed on the floor, trying to pull herself together. She can feel the telltale burn in her eyes, and she sniffs, and clenches her fists to try and head that bullshit off at the pass. “No, come on,” he mumbles and folds her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean it like it sounded.”

She listens to his heartbeat for a long moment. It’s strong and steady, no trace of the arrhythmia that terrified her four days prior. His breathing is calm, and slow; there’s no sign of any of the catastrophic damage she’d heard. It’s such a relief, and Lightning feels the remnants of horror and despair unknot from inside her.

She sniffles and then sobs, mortified by her loss of control. Snow tightens his arms around her, apologizing and desperate to fix the hurt that he thinks he caused. “Please, Light. Don’t cry. I didn’t—“

She pulls away from him, shakes her head, saying, “No, it’s not you,” puts her face in her hands and wipes the mess away. “It’s just a stress reaction.” He looks skeptical, but says nothing. “So, you’re tired of me being difficult, and you’re sick of fighting with me all the time. And you don’t want to do ‘this’” –complete with air quotes – “anymore?”

Snow nods, before saying, “Yeah. This whole nightmare made me realize that we have no guarantees for the future at all. That all we have is right now, and I want to make the most of every minute; I don’t want to spend it fighting.”

“I understand,” she says. Snow looks like he’s waiting for the punchline. _Or the punch_. After almost a full minute, he relaxes a bit.

“That was – _easier?_ – than I was expecting,” he says, but his tone suggests that he’s still waiting for things to go south.

She has no intention of making this hard on him. Snow is right: life is too short to waste time fighting about stupid bullshit. He deserves to be happy. He shouldn’t have to spend his time arguing with her.

“You have every right to want to be happy, Snow.”

“Wait, what?”

“When are you heading home?”

“Wait. _What?_ No!”

“I mean, it’s still —“

“Wait—“

“—pretty cold out.”

“No, just –“

“Sazh will probably be able to fly you home in a couple of days,” Lightning says, hoping that she’s telling the truth.

‘—just hold on –“

“I’m pretty tired, actually.”

“—for _one damn minute!”_

She blows out a frustrated breath. This whole thing is ridiculous. “I get it, Snow. Okay? _I get it.”_

“No,” he declares, shaking his head for emphasis. “You really don’t. I’m positive that you don’t.”

What’s not to get? Snow spent days avoiding her, and now has just come to her room at night to tell her that he’s sick of her bullshit, and that he’s tired of wasting the time he has fighting with her, and he doesn’t want to do it anymore. What could be clearer? 

“Just go home to Serah, Snow. I know that she makes you happy, and I promise I won’t fight with you anymore. I won’t make things difficult for you.” She turns to her bedroom, desperate for sleep. The ghost of headaches past seems to have discovered the art of necromancy, and has resurrected itself as a zombie migraine. She really needs to take a pill and get some sleep.

“I must be having a nightmare,” Snow tells the empty living room. “There’s no way this is happening right now.”

The living room remains silent as if to say, _don’t look at me, buddy. You’re on your own._

Snow seems determined to piss her off despite her best efforts. She already feels raw from…everything. The past thirteen days have sucked out loud. Snow upended Lightning’s entire life one night, and she’s spent the subsequent weeks trying to outrun the damage. Her body still aches from numerous near death experiences; her heart is still sore from cutting Snow out of her life, then finding him dead, resuscitating him, only to cling to him as his body shut down.

Now, here he is, trying to give her the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, while also saying ‘but really, it’s totally you; you’re the absolute worst,’ and she just can’t listen.

“It’s fine, Snow.” It’s not, but whatever. It’s not a surprise, is the point. “I don’t need you to draw me a diagram, and you don’t need to make up excuses. I understand, all right?”

“ _Nope_ , you definitely don’t,” he declares. He sounds frustrated and angry, which is just pissing her off.

Instead of indulging her own anger she says: “It’s not unusual for a near death experience to make someone re-evaluate their choices in life.” Snow is just shaking his head in the negative. “Look, I’m not angry—“

 _“Well, that makes one of us,”_ he fires back. He rolls his head from shoulder to shoulder, cracking several vertebrae. He’s gearing up for a fight, when that’s exactly what he just said he didn’t want. He huffs out a huge breath. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“Do what? That’s it!” If Snow wants an argument, he can have it with himself. She’s not interested in fighting with him anymore. “There’s the door. Have a good night!”

"You’re unbelievable! Don’t I get to say anything?”

“What is there to say? You came here and told me life is too short to deal with me making things difficult, and that you don’t want to do this anymore, and you’re tired of fighting all the time, and you just want to be happy. And I said, _I understand_.”

Snow’s mouth is hanging open and he’s staring at her like she just turned into an Amphisbaena, and is about to bite his head off.

“You don’t need to say anything else. I agree. You should go back to Serah.”

That snaps him out of his boggle. “Are you _really_ not going to listen to me right now?"

“Snow—“

He throws his hands up in the air and says, “Fine _._ _Whatever_!” He shakes his head and turns to leave, grumbling the whole way. She clenches her fists, feeling vaguely sick. Her bottom lip quivers, and she sinks her teeth into it in an effort to keep her emotions off her face.

Snow pauses at the door and looks at her over his shoulder. He eyes her up and down and she shivers. A slow smirk spreads across his face. There's something predatory in his eyes that has her hackles up.

"Is this really what you want, Light?" He turns around, tilts his head, narrows his eyes and stalks over to her. She steps back and he crowds her in. Sometime between the night that he showed up on her doorstep and upended their lives, and this moment, Snow figured out that he drives Lightning crazy; he demonstrates his newfound knowledge by turning all the sex appeal up to eleven, getting all up in her grill, and leaning in close enough that his every word is a hot gust of breath across her skin. "You _want me_ ,” he murmurs, voice rumbling like a distant thunderclap, “to go home to your sister?" 

She _wants_ _him_ out of her personal space, and she’s prepared to remove him by force if necessary. She can’t think straight when all she can feel is the heat rolling off all six and half feet of his perfect body, and all she can smell is his aftershave, shampoo, the tang of salt on warm skin, and hint of something unique to Snow that speaks directly to Lightning’s lizard brain and engulfs her in a fog of lust. She licks her lips, and can taste his scent on the air.

Snow smolders as he tilts his head down and looks up through his lashes at her. Something about the challenge in his voice, and the insistence of his presence in her space, kicks her right in the fight or flight. For Lightning, ninety-nine out of one hundred times, that translates to fight.

She puts her hands on his chest, prepared to back him the fuck out of her space, but as soon as she touches him, she’s back in that pit, with him gasping for air as his lungs flooded with blood; as his damaged heart struggled and staggered. The thought of putting her hands on him in aggression or violence sickens her. She stares at her hands where they rest on his chest, and trembles.

Snow’s smirk widens and he capitalizes on her hesitance; he steps closer still. 

"You want me to go back to your sister, and pretend the last year never happened?" With hooded eyes he leans forward, hums an exhalation, humid breath caressing her cheek. She tingles everywhere he doesn’t touch, burns everywhere he does. 

She leans away – a clear retreat – and he presses his advantage. "Pretend that it's a year ago, and that I didn't spend months with you?” His lips brush the shell of her ear as he whispers into it. His voice is all breath and vibration, sparking an answering tingle to shiver up her back from the base of her spine, and down her back from the base of her skull. Her lips part on a gasp.

“That we never spent quiet evenings on watch together, under the stars? That I’ve never comforted you? Or made you laugh? That I never dreamt of you, or longed for you?” He moves even closer, until the backs of her hands press against her breasts with his every inhalation.

“That I never quivered under your hands when you were healing me?"

"Stop," she demands. He ignores her.

_Shocking._

He shifts forward again, body brushing against hers with every breath. She swallows, holds her breath, presses against his chest while leaning away in an attempt to reclaim breathing room. Her back is flush with the wall, muscles burning under the strain of reining herself in. Every instinct screams at her to shove him away, put some distance between them.

Snow just leans into her hands, dragging his closed mouth down the line of her jaw, nose brushing under her chin, breath tracing her clavicle. His stubble tickles her face as he nuzzles and purrs, "You want me to pretend I never wanted you?" into her ear.

His voice is all vibration, punctuated by suggestive caresses of lips and tongue. The rumble of his chest beneath her hands, coupled with the bass of his voice in her ear, triggers a flood of sinful heat to spread through her. She licks her lips, exhales a low, groaning “mmm,” as he lowers his mouth and opens it against her neck. 

She gasps as he traces patterns on her throat with his lips and tongue, then moving down to her clavicle, where he adds teeth and suction into the mix. His stubble rasps against her soft skin as he sucks and nibbles, before using his tongue and lips to soothe away the small hurts. Her fingers curl into his coat, and she just clings to him, shuddering under the onslaught of sensation. 

"Pretend that I never dreamed of touching you?" His fingers slip around her wrists, drawing them away from his chest and pressing them against the wall. Closing the remaining distance, Snow brings his body into full contact with hers. Lightning shivers when Snow laces his fingers through hers and pins her hands to the wall. "Or tasting you?" And he latches onto her jugular, pressing himself flush against her. She throws her head back and moans, squeezing the hands in hers, desperate for…something.

More. Everything.

And then it’s all gone: his mouth, his hands, his body and his words. Snow retreats, taking the heat and scent of his body from her personal space. He vanishes as though he’d never been there. Lightning’s hands close too late to hold onto his; they hang empty against the wall for a too long moment, before she lets them drop to her sides.

She shivers. The air in the room feels too cold now, and she longs for the heat of his body again.

"I don't know if I can do it, Light. But if it's what you want, then I'll try."

Bastard says it like he actually means it.

She knows she ought to let him go. After all, that’s literally what she’d told him to do before he decided to short circuit her brain, and kick start her motor. Hell, it’s the entire reason the two of them are in New Eden instead of at home in Oerba. But now that he’s resigned himself to leave her behind, she feels only helpless desperation; if she lets him walk away now, then he will keep walking away, forever.

She knows that would be the responsible decision; the only decision that makes any sense considering the impossibility of having and loving him without destroying all their lives. She should just let him go: it’s what she’s wanted all along. Except—

Lightning wants many things. She wants Serah to be happy: to build a life and family with a man she loves, who loves her in turn; she wants to rid this world of men and monsters who enjoy preying on the vulnerable, and Lightning still has at least one promise left to fulfill; at least one dance left on that dance card, and one date who is owed a very special Goodnight Kiss from the sharpest smile ever forged. And Lightning always keeps her promises.

Above all, she wants Snow. All of him. Every day; forever.

And she no longer has the will to give him up.

Something wrenches in her and she snaps. She grabs his lapels, drags him around and hooks her fingers into the fabric of his coat to keep him right there.

_Decision made. Screw the consequences!_

He looks down at her hands, holds his breath, but won't meet her eyes.

This is wrong; she knows it’s wrong. She also knows that she has precisely zero fucks left to give over how wrong her feelings for Snow are. When she closes her eyes, she can still feel his blood coating her hands and mouth as she desperately breathed and beat life back into him. She almost lost him for good, and that wound is still bleeding; will probably bleed for years to come. And if she hadn't found him exactly when she did, he would be lost to her forever and her last words to him would have been: 'Don't call me again or I'll dump the communicator.'

She's not sure what's right anymore when it comes to Snow, but she knows what she wants, and needs, and Lightning is tired of denial. She wants him, wants them; wants whatever he might be willing to give her. Wants every last bit of this disasterpiece of a relationship, and she’s going to grab it with both hands, wrap her legs around it – maybe dig her teeth in, too, for good measure – _and hold the fuck onto it_ for as long as possible.

She’ll have enough regrets to chew over when she reaches the end of her life; Snow will not be one of them!

Pulling as hard as she can, Lightning lifts up on tip-toe and seals her mouth to Snow’s.

He tastes like mint and coffee. She feels his shock in the stiffening of his muscles, and for one moment, she wonders if he'll jerk away from her, call her a crazy bitch whose ass just isn’t worth all this friggin’ drama, and walk away without looking back. It wouldn’t be unreasonable. She literally just told him to go back to Serah, before grabbing him and latching onto his face like some sort of parasite. She feels her face start to burn with a strange mixture of humiliation and arousal. She wonders if she's blown this whole thing, frustrated him into finally cutting his losses.

Then all doubts disappear as Snow hums out a pleased sound, sinks his hands into her hair and opens his mouth to her. He grunts when she presses herself against him and he finally – _finally_ – touches her. 

His fingers slide across the soft skin of her throat as he cups her face in his large hands. One thumb settles beside her ear, rubs and pets at the bruise on her cheekbone. The other finds the small knot of cartilage over her larynx and strokes it. The slightest pressure of his thumb would cut off her air. It's a spot of vulnerability and she would never consider allowing anyone to lay hands on it.

Except him.

She trusts him blind, and has done from very early on. Long before she respected him, or even liked him, she trusted him. Within a few weeks of knowing him, she trusted him more than she trusted herself, and how screwed up is that?

Snow’s thumb traces small circles on her throat, mirroring the motion of his tongue in her mouth, transforming the vulnerable spot into a brand new erogenous zone.

_The talented fucker._

He presses forward with both body and tongue, and she refuses to give any ground with either. She uncurls her fingers from their death grip on his lapels, slides her hands up over his coat, fingernails catching on the skin of his neck on their path into his hair. He groans, and the sound vibrates through her, forces her to answer it.

Breaking away, Snow pants against her lips. Lightning counts out two heartbeats before she decides that he's had enough time to regroup. She lunges forward, pulls his head down and crushes her lips to his. He grunts once, chuckles into her mouth, and his hands leave off their gentle petting of her face and throat. One slides around to grip the back of her head while the other disappears one moment and reappears at her hip. It squeezes, kneads, then meanders across her lower back until it settles over her tailbone and yanks her against him. It's her turn to groan as he rubs her with his hands, body and tongue. 

He presses her against the wall again, plasters himself to her and wastes no time pressing his thigh between hers. The entire scenario gives her a whopping case of déjà vu for that inappropriate, long-ago dream.

She shifts her hips.

The reality is _way better_.

His mouth disappears from hers to travel over her jaw, down the line of her throat, before he latches onto her pulse point. It’s a moment of teeth and suction, love bite toeing the line between pleasure and pain, before he relents and soothes the bruise with his lips and tongue. He gives the spot where her neck meets her shoulder the same treatment.

She tilts her head back to grant better access. He rewards her by tensing the thigh between her legs, hips and mouth working in tandem.

_Just. Holy hell._

Her head thunks against the wall behind her; she gasps for air in a desperate attempt to clear her head, and regain some small semblance of self-control. Snow shifts forward with a roll of his hips, nudging her just right, startling a moan from her. His answering groan vibrates against her left earlobe before he flicks it with his tongue. He slides his open mouth down the line of her neck, nibbling across her clavicle, then traces a path back up the other side of her neck with the tip of his tongue.

He pauses by her ear, exhales a slow, steadying breath that sends tingles through her whole body. She shivers as his lips brush the skin just behind her ear. He huffs a soft breath, stops fucking around, and grinds up into her. Hard.

“You feel so good, Light,” he breathes into her ear. His hips press forward again. And again. “…want you so fucking bad.”

She grunts something in agreement, clawing at his back, body clenching and arching against him. She feels the long, hot length of him press into her hip, and she gasps out his name. Her voice is no more than breath, and she doesn't recognize it for the all the desire.

He freezes, ceases all movements and she wonders what the hell went wrong. She opens her eyes and meets his glassy ones. She blinks at him, furrows her brow as his gaze flickers over her face. She watches him watch her for a moment that goes on just long enough to be uncomfortable. She loosens her grip on him, steeling herself for an ugly scene.

"Wha—?"

He closes his mouth over hers before she can finish formulating the question. He launches a full on assault this time: fingers, body, tongue all laying siege to every sensitive spot on her body. He slides his hands around her sides, fingertips skating the waist of her pants, gathering the hem of her tank top and sliding it up. Abandoning her mouth for more southern locales, Snow drags his mouth down Lightning’s neck as his thumbs slide up her tummy. Her abdominal muscles flutter at his touch, both hands gliding over her ribs as he pushes the bottom of her tank top up until it's bunched under her breasts. He bends lower, exploring every inch of newly discovered skin with lips, tongue, breath and fingers. 

She pants, realizing that he is not only determined to discover every hot spot on her body, but plans to create new ones as well. She's torn between the need to act and the desire to wait and see. His mouth works at her clavicle as his hands skim under her shirt to tickle at her ribs and the undersides of her breasts. Her breath catches as he presses the tank top up – over her breasts and then higher – until it is a noose around her throat. He lets his fingers skate the swells of her breasts on the sides, touch light and teasing. He cradles them in his palms, gives a gentle squeeze before letting his thumbs circle and rub her nipples through the fabric.

She gropes for any part of him that she can reach as his mouth continues its exploration. He drags his tongue across and scrapes his teeth over her ribs, mouths a scar from the Purge – a puckered dimple of flesh rendered numb by the combination of the bullet, and Sazh’s panicked attempts to remove it with a dull knife and clumsy fingers – and the picture Snow makes as he worships her body with his mouth almost resurrects those long dead nerves, stoking the heat of her arousal even higher.

Sliding her hands around his neck, Lightning traces her fingernails over the line of Snow’s jugular, running her thumbs over the stubble along his jaw line. Her anticipation ticks up, up, with every roll of Snow’s jaw and swipe of his tongue against her body.

_Gods. How much hotter can she get?_

His fingers trace patterns on the soft skin just above the cup of her bra, tickle in her cleavage and then slide outward, beneath her arms around her back, tracing the line of her bra to the clasp. She pants, waiting for him to unhook it and end the teasing, and just get on with it already.

He doesn't, much to her growing frustration.

That’s it! She’s never wearing bras again!

Instead, he slips his fingers beneath the catch and lays his open mouth on her breast over her bra. The sensation of heat and wetness seeping through fabric makes her breath hitch. She moans out a sound she's positive she's never made before as he sucks and nibbles, uses his tongue to rub the wet fabric against her. 

Her hands slip from his face, slide down his sides to worm their way under his shirt. His skin is hot and smooth, muscles quivering beneath her petting hands. His sinful mouth tortures her, and she works her hands under his clothes around to the small of his back and pushes the tips of her fingers under the waist his jeans. He grunts when she tries to draw him against her, but he resists her efforts. He nibbles his way up her neck to her mouth. One hand disappears from her back, only to reappear behind her knee.

He hikes her leg up, until she presses the sole of her foot against the wall behind her. He groans into her mouth, fingertips tracing a path along her inner thigh, knee to groin, then down again. Each sweep upwards brings him closer to where she wants – _needs_ – his touch, has her tensing in anticipation. Each retreat causes disappointment to mix into the anticipation, creating an intoxicating cocktail. The last brush upwards whispers against her. Her foot slips off the wall, and she widens her stance as she claws at his back.

 _"Please,"_ she gasps against his smirking lips. Did she really just beg him to touch her?

If she did, it works. Snow groans and cups her, sucks on her neck, rubbing the heel of a hand against her, over her clothes. His big hand is perfect and torturous. Lightning clutches at his forearm, feels the muscles bunch and flex with each movement. He rubs again and her eyes roll back in her head. She decides it was worth the begging if just a simple touch can turn her whole body into a lightning rod for pleasure. It's too much and not enough as he moves his hand in slow, tight circles. Her whole body is flushed and hot and she needs so much more. This teasing is sweet agony, but she can't bring herself to stop any of it. Most of her wants to move on, get on with it, move past this appetizer and onto the main course already, but there's something so right in taking this slow, playing it out...

...Letting him lead for once, where she's only ever let him follow.

"So beautiful," he whispers against her breast and the vibrations on her sensitive flesh make her throw her head back and gasp out his name. Draw it out into three ragged syllables: “Sn—oh—oh...” She thumps her head on the wall in time with the small movements of his hand between her legs. Each pulse makes her blood run hotter, closer to the surface, until she feels like she's on fire. His mouth abandons one breast for the other and he bends to work again. 

Lightning claws at his back, his hair, gripping and tugging to get her mouth on his again. He protests for a moment, until her tongue slides into his mouth, slipping along the inside of his bottom lip, seeking, finding and twisting under and around his tongue. Working her hands under his shirt, Lightning scrapes her nails down his flanks before tracing the lines of his abs into the hollows of his hipbones. She tugs at the downy hairs below his navel, tracing the trail of hair downward with her thumb to where it disappears just below the top button of his jeans.

Snow sighs out a happy noise as Lightning’s deft fingers unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants. Her knuckles brush against smooth, wet skin. Snow’s hips buck, his breathing stutters, and he loses enough focus to disrupt the rhythm of his hands and lips on her body. Disappointment, frustration and relief pour through her in equal measure. 

Lightning slides her hand down and cups him through his jeans, feels him hard and hot against her palm; Snow groans and shifts as she rubs him through the denim. He mumbles soft curses against her lips and his hands stop roving and roaming her body for a shocked moment. He exhales a breath that she swallows down, and Lightning takes the opportunity to twist and shove him against the wall. 

He grunts, but it's not a pleased or aroused sound. It's pained.

Reality floods in. Snow is injured. He almost died from the beating he took. If it hadn’t been for Odin answering her desperate plea for help, he would be dead. They’re both likely dealing with some form of traumatic shock after the things they saw and did; after the horrors they’d each endured. They shouldn't do this now. _You shouldn't do this at all_ , her conscience whispers. She ignores that voice, because _fuck that bitch_. It’s not about her conscience. It’s about them.

This is a bad idea.

Nothing is resolved between them. Sex will only complicate an already messy situation. It will only cause more pain.

She's tired of hurting him.

She stops rubbing him, stops kissing him. He lets out another pained groan – this one from the abandonment – and his hands clutch and clamor at her. His lips press harder to hers, trying to draw her back into the kiss.

She leans away from him and pulls up his shirt, sees the bruises that still mar him. She ghosts her fingers over the deep black bruising and wishes that she could do something to help ease the swelling, bleeding and pain; grant him a measure of relief from the pervasive soreness.

He whispers, "Light," as her fingers trace the clear outline of a boot print where one of those monsters stomped him. "It's okay. I'm all right." His hands grope at her bottom, squeeze and massage and work to seduce again.

He's injured and they shouldn't do this…

"Wait," she whispers against his desperate lips. "We shouldn’t—“

“No! We _should_." He slouches, spreads his legs and bends his knees. He uses the wall to brace himself up and he pulls her forward until she's straddling one thigh again. _Gods, but he is good at this_ , she thinks, as she straddles his leg, muscles tightening in anticipation. He leans his forehead against hers. "We _definitely_ should. We've waited long enough," he whispers. She closes her eyes as he tenses his thigh between her legs, grinding her body into his with the hands on her ass. She gasps, rocks down onto him in wanton desperation. _"Too long,"_ he breathes. Bracing her hands on his pecs, she lets him draw her back into the teasing rhythm. "Feels like forever, Light."

She can't help but agree as he traces her open, panting mouth with the tip of his tongue. He kneads and rocks, licks and strokes; diving forward, Lightning wraps her lips around his tongue and sucks in time with this rhythm that he's set. Snow shudders when she presses and rubs against him. She breaks away, bites at his jaw then sucks a bruise into his neck as he stokes her ever hotter with his lips, hands and body. Snow’s groan is a broken, wanton thing, and Lightning needs more: more of that sound, more of this feeling. 

More of _him_.

 _All_ of him.

She slides her hands down his chest, scratches her fingernails over his hardened nipples on their journey to his belt. He jerks and rattles against her, gasps out a soft, “fuck yeah.” Groans and rocks into her as he pulls her to him. She melts like candle wax and for a moment, she loses herself in sensation. He bends back to her breast, shoves the material aside with his nose and teeth, latches onto skin this time with that sinful mouth and laps – sucks – twists. She keens and grinds down onto him and he flicks his tongue in response.

It would be so easy to go over the edge from just this petting and grinding, biting and licking. But she wants more. She wants it all: wants that hot, hard column of flesh inside her, pressing into her; wants a slow sweat, and a sweet soreness, and she refuses to be deterred. Her fingers catch on the pull of his fly and she works his pants open with one hand as she slips the other one in and covers him with her palm. He releases her flesh from his mouth with a quiet curse, blows a hot breath on the wet skin and licks once with the flat of his tongue. She slips her hand down to the root and gets a firm grip and he thumps his head against the wall.

" _Fuck_ …So good…M- _more_." He opens eyes bluer and blacker than the bruises on his body. “Light,” Snow groans, resting his forehead against hers.

She spends a long moment memorizing everything about his blissed out expressions. Like how his lips part and brow furrows on every down stroke; or how every circle of her thumb across the tip draws tiny gasps from his parted lips; or how he holds his breath and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip with every jerking twist upward. He’s fucking breathtaking, and she wants to catalogue every sound, taste every part of him, uncover every secret hidden inside him, even if it takes forever to do it. Nibbling at his jaw, Lightning, tightens her grip until it's just south of too much and strokes him again to experience new wonders.

His eyes fly open, and he grunts out a curse. _Exquisite_ , she thinks, as she coaxes his bottom lip out from between his teeth and soothes it with her tongue.

It turns out, Snow is a talker. That, in and of itself, doesn’t surprise Lightning. If there’s one thing she can count on, it’s Snow never shutting up. What does surprise Lightning, however, is how greedy she is to collect his every desperate utterance.

He mumbles a constant litany of pleas and curses; his voice is little more than breath as he whispers his secret benediction, and Lightning covets every gusty syllable. "Fuck…Light…Yes…No, wait. Please. Yeah. That’s it. Oh. Oh wait. No…oh… _oh, fuck!_ I can’t…gotta stop. Oh _God_! Uh, please. Just like that, Girl. Yeah, there.’ She traces her thumb through the pre cum, strokes downward, and back up, over and again. Each pass smooths the way, and her hand slips over his hot, wet skin in quickening, measured tugs, until he’s gulping air and shuddering under the onslaught. His hips twitch, abdominal muscles clenching and relaxing in time with her rhythmic movements, torn between succumbing to, and prolonging the pleasure.

"Bed," she says and pulls upwards, firm and slow. He hisses and chokes on the breath stuck in his throat. His hips stutter in counterpoint to the hand working his cock. She strokes again: from root to tip, thumb swiping over once, twice, then pressing and rubbing beneath the head. Moaning and thrashing, Snow curses, then drops his head against the wall behind him with a loud thud. He babbles out her name as she cups and rolls his sack, tightens her grip around the head, and slides her hand back down.

Again and again, she strokes him, twisting her wrist, thrilling at the way he whimpers and thrashes for her. Slow and steady, without the edge of teasing that he's been inflicting so deliciously on her body. Her movements are every bit the promise his teasing had been. He throws his head back and she latches onto his Adam's apple with lips and the barest hint of teeth.

"You're still hurt," she mumbles against his throat as she gives him another firm, slow tug. He moans and shudders, whispers her name. He sounds wrecked and wanton, and she feels the muscles in his body – his abs, his thigh – thrum with the strain of holding himself still. She swirls her thumb and he curses. She likes that reaction, feels a thrill at reducing him to expletives and grunts. Likes it so much that she rewards him by tracing tiny circles on the tip, over and over just to watch him come apart a bit more. He flushes, tosses his head back, and lets out the filthiest moan she’s ever heard.

She can’t believe how fucking beautiful he is. And she almost lost him.

“Come on,” she encourages. “Bed,” she whispers against his throat.

He opens his eyes, whispers, “Light. Please. _More,_ ” and then confuses her by pulling away and saying, “Wait. Just wait a minute.”

She releases her grip on him in favor of hooking his lapels. Snow’s hand slips into her hair, palm cradling the back of her head, long fingers gently massaging her scalp. She places a soft kiss on his panting mouth, then trails light kisses down the line of his throat until she feels his heart hammering beneath her lips. She settles there, licking and nuzzling, luxuriating in the taste of Snow’s skin, the feel of his heartbeat thudding against her open mouth, and the sound of his long, deep steadying breaths. She waits, indulging herself while allowing him time to regroup, back away from that edge and reclaim some semblance of control over his body.

The fingers in her hair tighten, pulling her mouth back up to his. Sucking on his tongue, Lightning drags Snow from the wall and maneuvers him toward the bedroom. He melts against her, moans into her mouth. His hands grope at her shirt while she shoves at his coat. They become entangled in their limbs and clothing – awkward and wonderful – and he chuckles into her mouth, detaches her fingers from his coat and mumbles, "Ladies first." 

She isn't certain what that means until he uses his height advantage to disentangle them and pull her tank top over her head. The air feels too cool against her arousal flushed body and she shivers as his hand traces across her exposed skin. He clutches at her, bruises her mouth with a hard kiss before releasing her. Her head spins as he shrugs off his coat and drops to one knee before her.

Kneeling before her, Snow gazes up with eyes black with lust; he winks, gives her a devilish smile, then leans in to flick her navel ring with his tongue before tugging on it with his teeth. She places a palm against his cheek, feeling the motion of his jaw as he alternates between sucking, kissing and licking at the soft flesh along the waistband of her pants. His hair feels like silk as she combs through it with shaking fingers, and Snow he twists and closes his mouth over the flesh inside her wrist, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her pulse point.

She loves this man so fucking much. It’s awful and amazing, and just…fuck everything, ever.

Clever fingers work her pants over her hips, slide them down her thighs. She flails for a moment when he licks a stripe up her inner-thigh and settles his mouth on her hipbone. There’s a hint of teeth over the knob of bone, a gush of hot breath and then a hot, open mouth tracing the line of her panties. Lightning laces her fingers through Snow’s hair as he nudges at her with first nose, then tongue. She gasps at the feel of wet cotton and wetter tongue on her sensitive, swollen sex. She moans as he licks her, shudders as he murmurs against her. Long fingers wrap around her ankle and pull, nearly toppling her to the floor. Disoriented and unbalanced, Lightning tightens her grip on his hair until he hisses.

"Sorry." She loosens her grip on his hair and moans as he chuckles against her.

"A hair puller. Who'd have guessed?" Snow whispers in a manner that clearly suggests that _he_ had guessed, before shutting up and putting his mouth to better use. She feels every muscle in her body tighten and tense under the onslaught. "Bet you're a screamer, too," he mumbles. "Can't wait to find out.” Snow looks up through his lashes, flashing her a smile that’s all teeth and mischief. 

“Let's try this again," he says, voice dripping with promise. Snow moves one hand to brace against her back as the other pulls her foot off the floor and out of the leg of her pants. His fingers sweep over her instep as he helps her find her footing again. He repeats the procedure with the other foot, and she kicks away the pants puddled at her feet. Hands reappearing at the back of her thighs, Snow leans in, presses his face against her and sucks material and flesh into his mouth, rubbing both with the flat of his tongue until Lightning feels like she might ignite from the friction.

She grabs onto his head to keep from flying apart; he groans against her when she threads her fingers into his hair and Lightning holds on for dear life as Snow _destroys_ her.

So close. It's too much and not enough.

"Wait," she says, even as her body screams for more. She pulls at his hair to stop his mouth. This isn't what she wants. Lightning has a very clear goal tonight. She wants to have him, all of him, and he's pushing her too far, too close. 

"Light," he groans. "I...want you." She peels her eyes open, looks at him kneeling before her with adoration in his lust darkened eyes. It’s clear what he’s not saying by the way he’s gazing at her. She swallows around the sudden lump in her throat, and Lightning knows from the tingling and clenching in her chest and fluttering in her belly, that it’s her heart that’s choking her.

Then Snow offers yet another bit of grace by setting love aside in favor of satisfying their lust. He smirks, winks, his hands sliding up from their perch on her thighs to cup her ass as he bends back to his task.

The world vanishes in favor of feeling.

_Fuck it._

"You have me," she moans, hoping he hears what she can't yet verbalize, and Snow growls in response. His fingers slip under the legs of her panties, slide around until his pinkies tickle her inner thighs. He nudges the material aside and she feels one thick finger probing at her. Testing her. Circling and flicking in time with his tongue.

"So wet for me. You’re so fucking hot," he groans and then presses the tip of one thick digit inside her. Lightning gasps and yanks his hair harder than she means. His finger disappears, and he stands to claim her mouth again. He sweeps her up into his arms, and Lightning wraps her legs around his waist as he completes the short journey to the bed.

She's so distracted by the taste of his tongue, the feel of his fingers, and the press of his erection into her belly that being deposited onto the edge of the bed and released is a complete shock. The blankets are scratchy against the backs of her thighs and calves, the floor is cold beneath her bare feet. She shivers as she sits there, too hot and cold in her semi-nudity.

Standing before her, Snow kicks off his boots, grabs the hem of his shirt and whips it over his head. Seizing the opportunity presented by Snow’s compromised position – arms over his head, tangled in his shirt – Lightning peppers his chest and abdomen with open-mouthed kisses while working his unbuttoned jeans over his hips. She shoves at them until they are around his calves, then catches them with her foot to drag them the rest of the way down.

Lightning slips her fingers under the elastic of his shorts and peels them away, leaning in to lick the tantalizing bit of tip poking out the top. Snow's breath catches, stutters; thick fingers brush back Lightning’s hair, tuck it behind her ears, cradle her face, stroke over her cheek, trace the line of her jugular and skim back and forth across her clavicle. Constantly moving, never settling, as though he doesn’t trust himself not to clutch or grab.

_Maybe he's a hair puller, too._

She drags his shorts down and presses a sucking kiss to the swollen flesh before her. Snow swears and stammers as she licks him, and she thrills at the evidence of his pleasure. She wraps her lips over the head, twirls her tongue and sucks. Curling her fingers around the base, Lightning moves her mouth down until her lips brush against her hand. She swallows around the flesh in her mouth and Snow spits out more profanity. His hips stutter once but he jerks away and out of her mouth with an audible _pop_.

"Hold up," he pants, hand up in a warding gesture. He takes several steadying breaths, muttering something under his breath that she doesn’t quite catch. She gazes up at him through her lashes, and he swears, smirks and shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Minx,” he accuses, running his thumb across her bottom lip. She twirls her tongue around the tip of his thumb, before placing a sucking kiss on the pad. Snow grunts, slides his thumb past her lips and she decides to make a show of it. She curls her tongue around his thumb, traces the lines of his knuckle with the tip of her tongue, before hollowing her cheeks and sucking hard.

She watches Snow, admiring the results of her attentions. There’s a flush that starts at his cheekbones, spilling downward across his neck, and chest. His pupils are blown so wide that the blue is almost subsumed, transforming the usual sparkle into a heated, dark glisten. His lips are plumped, reddened from their kisses, and parted to facilitate the heavy, excited breaths. His tongue slips across his bottom lip before curling upwards, and disappearing again. He closes his mouth and swallows. The gesture is unconscious, an attempt to coax moisture into a mouth gone dry. She groans at him, and he jerks his hand back as if her mouth were an open flame.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I said ladies first," he rasps, his voice choked with aborted arousal, “and I meant it." He bends double before her and kisses her again. It's all swirling, thrusting tongue, and hot, rapid breathing. She can feel her lips swelling from the intense make-out, feels the burn on her face as his scruff rubs against her. She should be uncomfortable – lips bruised, face abraded, nipples tender and sensitive – but her brain seems to interpret the small hurts as pleasure. 

She opens her mouth wider, tangles her tongue with his as he lays claim to her mouth. She kisses him until she's dizzy with the need for air, breaks away to take one breath before diving back in. She kneads his shoulders, scratches at his neck, clutches at his back, wraps her legs around him and locks her ankles.

He almost died. When she closes her eyes, all she sees is his limp, beaten body. 

Not now, though; now she's got him living and breathing, throbbing and needing beneath her hands. Now she's inhaling his exhalations, tasting his tongue, smelling his sweat, feeling his rumbling. He's alive, and she wants as much proof of that life as she can get. She wants to celebrate it. She doesn't care if it's right. 

She has forever for regrets. Tonight is for need.

And as much as she denies it, she needs him.

That still terrifies her.

She feels his fingers hook into her panties at her hipbones as he nibbles on her swollen bottom lip. She lifts her hips and the wet cotton disappears from her body at the same time Snow's lips leave hers. She gasps cool air to try to clear her head, feels his lips and tongue against her clavicle, his stubble scratching her breasts as he mouths his way down her body. His fingers make quick work of her bra and he slips it off her, rewards her with a rub and squeeze of the newly exposed flesh.

Snow whispers something secret against her stomach as he hooks her knees with his elbows. Her back hits the bed as he unseats her with a yank of her legs. She pants and stares at the ceiling for a confused moment before glancing down the line of her body – past the curve of her breasts and the plane of her belly – to meet Snow's eyes. She's sprawled naked, but for the rosy blush of excitement. He winks at her, runs his hands over her body once – a soft caress of fingertips tracing from her neck down to her toes, under her feet and up again – before his palms cup and trace their way up the backs of her legs. He lifts and drapes her right leg over his shoulder, presses the other knee onto the bed and spreads her.

She's never enjoyed this particular activity, not because it doesn't feel good – does it ever! – but because of the total exposure and vulnerability involved. She's never been comfortable enough with a lover to lose herself in the feeling of lips, tongue and fingers. She always felt too much of one thing and too little of others to just 'relax and go with it,' so to speak.

But there's no lack of trust in this room. While there may be both too much and not enough between them – too many regrets and too few understandings, too many obstacles and too few solutions – no surplus nor lack gives her any sort of pause, now. There's no discomfort as she lays vulnerable and open before him. She doesn't feel anything but lust as Snow stares at her with that intoxicating mixture of want and adoration. 

She reaches down and traces her fingers over a sharp cheekbone, ghosts a touch over the greens and yellows of an old bruise. He presses a kiss to her fingertips, then flashes one of those infuriating smirks at her. Lightning can't help but smile back and watch as Snow leans in to pleasure her.

The first drag of the flat of his tongue over swollen flesh causes a full body clench. She shoves her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming as he works her with his mouth. Long licks and sharp sucks mixed with pokes and twirls have her panting and sweating like a drug addict in withdrawal. She writhes and curses, presses her heel into his back as he slips one then two long fingers inside her. 

"Tell me what you want, Light," he whispers against her thigh. She blinks sweat and tears out of her eyes, tries to focus on his words rather than her body. Language proves too difficult a skill to master as he rubs her inside and out. "Is this what you want?” he prompts, and moves his fingers again, rubs the tips against a spot inside her that causes her to clench and arch.

She nods, then shakes her head. She wants this, but not. She wants more. She wants everything.

She opens her mouth to answer him. Words turn to a moan as he licks her again. She trembles and tenses and he blows cool breath on overheated flesh. It shocks a full body jerk out of her. He chuckles and puts another big hand across her pelvis to hold her steady.

"How about that? Is that working?"

Of course Snow trash-talks in bed! Snow talks shit all the time. Why would sex be an exception? The only surprising thing is that it took this long for him to start. She grinds her teeth together, feels her jaw start to ache from the effort of keeping quiet as he continues his slow torture.

“Come on, Light. Let me hear you,” he says, punctuating each word with curled fingers, clever lips or a wicked tongue. She indulges him, hums and moans out his name. “That’s my girl,” he says with such warm fondness that she rewards him with soft pleas and pleased hums.

He spends forever taking her apart, bringing her to the brink over and over, until she’s a sweaty, shaky wreck.

Snow approaches sex with her the same way he approaches any of their competitions: with an admirable amount of skill, and enthusiasm to spare.

Somehow, he still hasn’t learned that Lightning fights dirty.

She reaches for the hand on her hip, threads her fingers through his and he ceases for a moment, sighs and shifts. The respite lets her pull herself together enough to look at him. She aches at the awe on his face as he stares at their intertwined hands. _Gotcha, Hero,_ she thinks. She clears her throat to give voice to the thought, but the sound snaps him back to the moment. He crooks the fingers inside her and rubs.

Again. And again.

His tongue traces patterns, his fingers stroking and circling, and Lightning feels her body coil tighter and tighter. Breathing is becoming an issue, and Snow chuckles against her. “Come on, breathe, baby. Just breathe,” he says, as though he’s not doing his level best to make that impossible.

She drops her head back onto the bed and groans, feels the muscles in her thighs trembling under the strain. Snow replaces his mouth with his thumb, traces hard, tight circles over and around, and her eyes slam shut. She squeezes his hand as he works his fingers in and out of her, rubbing and tapping, until her whole body clenches at him with bruising force.

The hand holding hers vanishes, and she's confused for a second before his mouth latches onto her breast. His clever lips and tongue work their magic there as his fingers take her apart piece by piece. She can feel every nerve in her body connect and light up, everything throbbing in time with the twirls of his tongue and fingers. She claws at him and grunts, yanks on his hair, writhes hard enough to jar him from his straddling position and wreck his tempo.

He chuckles, whispers "that's my girl," with such affection that she feels herself startle and blush. He pins her leg to the bed, opens her wider and slides another finger into her.

Deeper, harder.

Her breath catches as his fingers wriggle inside her. 

The feeling wrenches a scream from her and he says, "That's it." She thinks she hears him whisper "gorgeous" to her, but the blood is pounding in her ears like a hopped up drummer, and she's not certain that she's not hallucinating from the pleasure.

This can't possibly be good for her. Things that feel this good are always bad. 

Aren't they?

She feels a shriek build in her throat and she clamps down on it as her body clamps down on the fingers working her. An undulation against her turns the shriek into a bizarre manifestation of: "Snow—“ 

He closes his lips around her nipple, applies the barest hint of teeth and flicks hard with his tongue, presses up and in with that magic hand, and every muscle in her body locks. He closes his lips over her open mouth, capturing and swallowing her scream. His fingers slip out to be replaced by something harder, hotter, longer and thicker. Breeching, then sliding in deeper, bottoming out in one strong burning thrust that wrings another orgasm out of her before the first one ends.

Every muscle in her body quivers in opposition as Snow buries himself inside her with a grunt.

He shushes her as she keens, and pets her as she shakes. He rocks into her with shallow thrusts as she comes down from the climax; kisses her slack mouth as she pants. She feels wrung out. Her muscles are trembling and fluttering, heart pounding in her throat hard enough to choke off her words. She wants to shy away from him, too over-stimulated to endure much more, but he's not done yet.

They're not done yet.

She tightens her legs around him, rolls her hips and clamps down inside and out to egg him on. He lets out a small sound into her hair – a cross between a whimper and gasp – and he drives forward hard enough to force her breath from her lungs. She meets the thrust with a twist, smirks at his curse. He's all about 'ladies first,' but she's gone first and second. She wants him to have his turn now, so she clenches and shimmies, digs her heels into him like she's spurring a chocobo to full gallop. He shakes his head against her, whispers "knew it," but refuses to pick up the pace.

"Wha-what?" 

"That'd you'd be perfect," he murmurs against her throat, then presses gentle kisses against her lips. She rolls her hips but he just pets, kisses and rocks into her until she subsides. She unlocks her muscles and breathes.

The hypersensitivity in her lower body lessens, replaced with a warm pleasure, as Snow continues his slow, easy movements. The urgency backs off into a corner to wait like some sick voyeur while Snow moves inside her, stoking her even hotter. She sighs in his mouth, melts into a kiss as he rolls his hips into hers, and he seems to take that as some sort of cue. 

He gets one hand around the back of her thigh, and the other around between her shoulder blades and pulls her against him, pressing even deeper inside of her. She wraps her legs around his hips, locks her ankles, heels pressed against the swell of his perfect ass. She bites down on first her lip, then his shoulder as he lifts her and drags her toward the head of the bed without slipping out of her. She pants against his neck as he settles on top of her, hooks her leg behind the knee and pushes it higher. 

He presses his tongue into her mouth, withdraws, and slides back in with a slow, deep thrust.

Lightning arches her back and lets out an undignified moan. When Snow’s hips press firmly against hers, he swivels them in a circle, slipping deeper still, nudging her just right.

 _What the hell was that?_ She wonders. When Snow chuckles, she figures she must have said that out loud. Ordinarily, she’d be embarrassed, but she can’t bring herself to care about her pride with Snow working himself ever deeper into her body, filling her with more pleasure than she’d ever dreamed possible.

Snow mumbles something against her pulse point before sucking on her exposed neck. He presses into her again, slow and steady. She digs fingernails into his back and meets his thrusts, matches his rhythm. She slides her feet along the backs of his thighs as he withdraws and thrusts again. She pants into his open mouth, traces fingers through the sweat on his skin, slides a hand down to his ass and pulls him into her on the next thrust, presses behind his balls and feels him startle and surge. 

"Fuck," he swears and shakes. His rhythm breaks and he bites and licks at her lips as he tries to recover. She continues to rub the distracting spot and he groans out her name, presses her knee up and over his shoulder to spread her impossibly wider, spreads his own legs to accommodate her ministrations, and thrusts in hard enough to knock the air from her.

He kisses her again – this one messy. It's all tongue and heavy breathing, mixed with the tiniest high-pitched whine on each down stroke. She abandons her rubbing in favor of tapping and stroking and he curses and mumbles something incoherent into her mouth. There's an ache settling into her hips, and an unpleasant burn brewing at the base of her spine from the position. Her leg is hiked up to the point of pain, the suggestion of a muscle spasm forming in her calf. None of it matters as Snow slides into her and swivels his hips. The discomfort is eclipsed by the ecstasy. She curls her toes, tosses her head from side to side. She feels the telltale clenching of muscles and full body flush building again and wonders how her body is going to be able to take all this sensation at once. 

She feels as though she might immolate. 

The sweat stings her eyes and the strain of all the clenching – both voluntary and otherwise – makes them water. Her mouth is dry from her open-mouthed panting, and her throat is raw. 

She guesses that she really is a screamer.

Snow kneads and pets her breast with one hand while bracing his other forearm against the mattress. The next twist of his hips shows her just how wonderful the right leverage can be.

She opens her eyes when Snow rests his forehead against hers. The expression on his handsome face is blissful. Lightning leans up and kisses the side of his mouth, then nibbles his lower lip until she feels his rhythm change. She works her arms under his and around him, lets them settle on the small of his back, to tickle and trace patterns through the pooling sweat, before cupping his shoulder blades to cling to him. Her tongue teases its way his mouth, licking his lips, his palate, his tongue. He whispers her name into her mouth and picks up the pace. She sucks on Snow's tongue to distract him, clenches and twists on his next drive forward, until Snow's flat on his back with her plastered to his chest.

The change of position forces Snow even deeper into her and she lets out a sound she's not sure she's ever made before. He says, "See? Screamer," in a playful tone. He rakes her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears. Trailing his fingers down her back, Snow presses up into her as she sits up on him. She almost comes from the relief of the pressure on her hips and lower back. She shifts, clenching and relaxing her pelvic floor, then rolling her hips to work out the kinks and to try and alleviate the burn in the knotted muscles of her lower back, and Snow moans and rumbles, jerks his hips in response.

Lightning smiles down at the stunned look on his flushed, sweaty face. She traces her thumbs over his nipples as she settles her hands on his chest. Each circle of her thumbs is accompanied by one of her hips. She uses his chest for purchase as she sets a satisfying pace. His hands settle at her hips to guide her as she rides him in tight, measured strokes. 

"You're so beautiful," he gasps. She can feel the tension in him threatening to break. His hands pinch at her flesh hard enough to bruise, and his rhythm picks up in an effort to find his end within her body. She bears down on him, encourages him with drags of fingernails and soft feminine squeals as she tries to yank his orgasm from him with her clenching muscles. Each squeeze tears a curse from him; each flick of fingernail causes another break in his rhythm. 

She wants to watch him fall apart. 

Snow’s body is flushed all over, glistening with sweat. His eyes are black and heated, full of an emotion that terrifies and thrills her. She shoves aside thoughts of everything but this moment, dismisses thoughts of betrayal and memories of his broken body bleeding in a muddy pit, forgets about all the reasons that this is a terrible idea and just lets herself feel him. She clenches around him and watches his lips part and eyelashes flutter. 

He's the beautiful one. In every way. Inside and out. She doesn't deserve him. He isn't hers—

She quickens her pace and watches him catch his lower lip between his teeth. Watches his eyes clench, feels his abdominal muscles tighten. 

—but she has him all the same, and _she’s fucking keeping him_. The world can go right to hell.

Lightning swivels her hips on every down stroke as Snow thrusts up to meet her. His muscles are corded and tense, pressing veins out through the skin of his arms. She can feel his heart raging beneath her hands, feel his pulse pounding through him everyplace they touch. Snow's right hand abandons her hip to slip where they're joined. He rubs her with his thumb, setting her body on fire from her toes to her eyeballs with one small touch. He smirks and nods at her, whispers, "that’s my girl." He glides over, flicks, then presses and rubs, alternating until everything within her snaps. Her control vanishes. Her thrusts get erratic before her entire body clenches. 

Locks— 

Breath caught in her chest—

Mouth dropping open—

Back arching—

Then she spasms. _Hard_. 

She hears him bark out a shout as her climax triggers his. 

It goes on and on, like being electrocuted. He rubs her through hers and she rides him through his, clenching and thrusting, milking and rocking, surge after surge until her muscles turn to rubber and she collapses on him like a broken puppet. 

A sweaty, sated, sore, broken puppet. 

She pants into his chest, enjoying the feeling of him still inside her. Finally, she shifts to let him slip from her, worms her hands between the bed and his body, cups his shoulder blades, presses her face into his sternum, and holds onto him. 

Snow's fingers trail through the sweat pooling at her lower back. His fingers press into the soreness in her muscles and she groans at the pleasurable pain of relief. He rumbles against her in a way that feels like a purr. She keeps her eyes closed as she listens to his heartbeat calm, and his breathing slow. She turns her head and places a kiss over his heart. 

Snow slides his hands up under her arms and manhandles her up his body. She sighs as he lays a gentle kiss on her sweaty temple and brushes her hair off her forehead. She turns to meet his lips with hers. Her mouth is as sore as the rest of her: bruised and abused from their marathon love-making. 

She's got stubble burns over ninety percent of her body, bruises and love bites from her neck to her thighs. There's an ache threatening to turn to full-on pain in her right hip, and a soreness from her waist down indicative of some serious sex after a long drought. 

She smiles against his skin and closes her eyes.

She feels great!

Snow shifts her off him as she drowses. Lightning feels him slip a pillow beneath her head, then draw the soft sheets over her body. Finally, he settles himself in to sleep, and there’s acres of wonderful, warm skin pressed against every inch of her. She feels lips behind her ear, and a whisper of breath into the shell.

As she succumbs to sleep's siren call, she hears him whisper, "I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Concluded in Chapter 17: An Overwhelming Question  
> I hope it'll be one chapter. Since it's not completed yet, I can't be positive, but..I'd lay odds on Chapter 17 successfully concluding Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?
> 
> Feedback is love. And honestly, I could really use it for this chapter since it's so very different from my usual writing. Consider this an actual request for opinions. I'd like to hear what you think, even if it's 'holy crap! Why did you write a 22 page lemon?"
> 
> And while we're on that subject: I know that this chapter is incredibly long. Believe it or not, I have a lot more that was all cut out. If there's any interest, I'm considering polishing up some of the cut content and posting them as one-shot PWP type outtake scenes. I will take no offense if there's no interest. I know that PWP isn't everyone's cuppa.


	17. An Overwhelming Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day, in twelve parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I've written, ever. 35 pages, and 16K words, but I honestly didn't want to split it. Something about having a chapter total that's a prime number really appeals to the complete nerd in me.
> 
> Yes, this story did begin with A Tedious Argument and end with An Overwhelming Question. Every chapter title is from this poem, as are the names of all 12 parts of this chapter. I do love me some T.S. Eliot.

“…Streets that follow like a tedious argument  
Of insidious intent  
To lead you to an overwhelming question...  
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”  
 **—T.S. Eliot, _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_**

“There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man's evil prying calls them just within our range.”  
― **H.P. Lovecraft,** ** _[The Thing on the Doorstep](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/6747969)_**

Chapter 17  
An Overwhelming Question  
  


_Prelude  
no great matter_

Location: New Eden Outskirts

“Sir, are you sure about that order?”

“Our job is to follow orders, not question them. If the Council wants him released, then we release him.”

“Shouldn’t we find out—?”

“Do you want to be looking for a new way to feed your family? Look, we’ve got a good gig here. Feed and water the prisoners. Make sure that they’re where they’re supposed to be. And follow the orders of the Council, since they hand down the sentences. It’s not our place to play judge or jury. We’re the jailors. And apparently, this guy don’t need jailing no more. The end.”

“Well, shit rolls downhill, and I’m at the fucking bottom. And I’m telling you right now: if I’m up to my neck in shit, I ain’t gonna be the only one lookin’ for a shovel.”

* * *

_Part I  
we have lingered in the chambers…_

Lightning spends hours floating just beneath the surface of consciousness, aware enough to feel the warm puffs of Snow’s exhalations against the nape of her neck, the weight of his elbow resting on the curve of her hip, and the wide of expanse of his chest pressed flush to her back, but not awake enough to feel obligated to climb out of her bed and start her day. It’s only Snow snuffling, shifting then stretching that pulls her close enough to consciousness for her body’s needs to sound off.

Priority number one: she has to pee, now. She’s also parched and famished. Lightning hasn’t eaten much over the past two weeks, and she definitely needs water after the sweat she worked up last night. Grumbling, she tears herself away from the warm sheets, and even warmer body within them.

“Where you goin’?” Snow slurs, reaching for her; she closes the bathroom door in answer. After dealing with her bladder, Lightning takes the opportunity to brush the morning breath out of her mouth and wash up a bit before snatching a bathrobe off the hook. She casts a long, lingering look at the shower, and almost gives into her urge when her stomach growls out a loud protest.

Snow is sitting on the edge of the bed when she exits the bathroom, jeans on, zipped but unbuttoned. He looks wary, and she’s not sure why or what she’s supposed to say to make him less tense. He disappears into the bathroom before she figures it out, and she hurls herself onto the bed and screams into a pillow in frustration.

What the fuck is happening? Can’t anything be not a giant, awkward mess? They’d spent hours touching and tasting every part of each other last night, but now that the sun is up, they’re back to tentative glances and stilted words?

Why?

She decides that she’s just going to act normal. Or, an approximation of normal. Whatever it is that passes for normal after someone has given you multiple orgasms, multiple times, over many, many, _many_ hours.

So…not normal, then.

She’s so bad at this. She knew that, but the reminder still sucks. Risking her life? No problem. Killing things? Sure thing. Soft, tender conversations about feelings? Check please!

Snow sits beside her and lays a hand on her back. “You okay?” He jumps back with a “Woah,” when she springs up to a sitting position.

“Fine,” she lies. “You?”

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Great.” God, they’re being stupid again. How is that a thing right now?

Lightning gets up and starts to stalk to the kitchen before she whips around and says: “So, I was wondering—“

“All right, let’s do this,” Snow says, rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder, like he’s limbering up for fistfight. _Are they fighting now? God, how did that happen?_

How did she fuck up this badly? All she did was go to the bathroom!

“What?” She asks, lost without a map.

“It had to come up at some point.” _It did? What did?_ “It’s about that time, right? Time for the misery and guilt part of the program?” Oh. _Oh!_ Now she gets it. “You know: ‘This was wrong. It can’t happen again. Go home, Snow.’ Then you run off somewhere, and I have to track you half-way across the planet. I mean, I’m not sure where you’re going this time. I hear Cocoon has some real estate available. Or maybe you’ll just head back to Oerba, and the two of us can just trek back and forth across the most dangerous parts of Gran Pulse, over and over until we’re both dead. That sounds perfect, actually. Like exactly what you might do to punish yourself for wanting me. Oh, and punish me too, of course, because when you hurt you, you hurt me.”

“But I hate to break it to you, Light,” he continues, before she can respond. She snaps her mouth shut and just…lets him get it all out. It’s obvious that he has a lot he needs to say to her right now. “I’m just not up for it. I would. I’m not letting you just run away from me again. If you want to get rid of me, you’re going to have to say it to my face. We both know that you’d rather light yourself on fire than do something as awful as discuss your feelings, right?” he laughs at his own joke. She folds her arms, waiting for him to finish. Assuming he ever will. “But physically, I’m not up for it. So, can we just have it out right now, instead?”

 _Wow. He’s been sitting on that for a good long while._ Lightning stares at him for a long moment, waiting to see if he has anything to add, before finishing the statement that kicked off his rant: “So I was wondering what you wanted for breakfast.”

Snow stares at her, mouth hanging open. She smiles at him, and presses his chin up to close his mouth, then plants a soft kiss on his lips. He cups her face, deepens the kiss, before breaking away and saying, “All I want is you.”

Something in her belly flutters at the soft, sweet sentiment. “You _have_ me, but you need to eat.” His eyes light up, smirk turning lascivious, before he pulls her down and rolls her beneath him.

“Oh, I’ll eat plenty.”

So much for breakfast.

* * *

_Part II  
the taking of a toast and tea  
  
_

Come lunchtime, Lightning’s stomach refuses to be ignored. Snow grumbles, but joins her in the kitchen to scrounge up some sort of food once she declares that she’s done with sex until she’s fed.

“So, apparently, these assholes have a secondary base outside the Paddrean Archeopolis,” Snow tells her, between bites of his sandwich.

“Wait, what? How do you know that?”

“What do you mean? I interrogated Evil Henchman Number Two. Wasn't that the whole reason you didn't want me to kill that fucker?”

 _Kill that fu—? The prisoner?_ “Yeah, of course, I wanted to interrogate the prisoner.” Then, because she just can’t not ask him: “Evil Henchman number two? Who's Evil Henchman number one?”

“Huh? I don’t know! Who cares? I'm calling him number two because, you know, he's a piece of shit.”

 _Of course,_ she thinks, rolling her eyes to heaven. “Obviously. I should have realized,” she deadpans.

“Yeah, Girl. You should have.”

“Okay, fine. But when did you interrogate…Evil Henchman number two.” She feels ridiculous saying that out loud, and by the smirk on Snow’s face, she sounds just as ridiculous. “That’s my question.”

“Yesterday. No, now two days ago. The day after we got out of the infirmary. Sazh was concerned that the colonists would execute the guy before we had a chance to interrogate him, so he and I headed over to the prison. He figured having me around might make it harder for them to refuse our interview request.” Snow cracks his knuckles to emphasize exactly why he might be more difficult to refuse.

 _As if Sazh couldn’t just point a gun at them_ , Lightning thinks. “I just—“

“What? You don't think I can be intimidating?” Snow pouts at her in faux outrage.

“No. I mean, of course, I know you can be intimidating, Snow. You're huge. And strong. And really, really loud—“

“Uh, thanks, I think?”

“And annoying.

“Okay, you can stop now.”

“But that’s not—“

“What's the issue, Light? Are you mad that we didn't tell you we were going?”

"No." Except, yeah, she kind of is, but she didn't even know she was supposed to be mad, because she had no idea that they went.

"Blame me. Sazh was going to get you, but I didn't want you to have to deal with that guy and his bullshit anymore.”

Okay, she gets that. That's a very Snow thing for him to do. Completely disregard what she might want in order to protect her feelings. She'll be angry at him later, if she remembers. Right now, she's too busy reassessing everything she thought she knew about the past few days.

“What is it?” Snow is starting to look and sound very concerned.

 _Okay. Truth time. This is going to suck out loud._ “I mean, I noticed that you'd disappeared.”

“Disappear— what the hell are you talking about 'disappeared’?”

“I mean, I knew I didn't see you…” she trails off, unwilling to say what she’d actually thought. She isn’t sure if he’s going to be angry or hurt, but she’s pretty sure it’ll be one of them.

“ _Right?_ Sazh and I had to go to the prison, which is an hour away in the Snow Kat. Then we had to be debriefed by the assholes in charge of the prison. Seriously, I didn’t like them much more than I like Evil Henchman Number two,” Snow makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “And it was late when I got back, and not for nothin’, but I'm still not fully recovered from what those fuckers did to me.”

For a moment, her mind goes somewhere it shouldn’t and she thinks: _if this is what he’s like when he’s still on the injured list, I may never make it out of bed ever again. Hell, I may never walk right again._

“No, I get it. I just—“, _have no idea what to say right now._

“Where did you think I went, Light?”

“I didn't know. I just knew that I hadn't seen you.”

“What, did you assume that I was just avoiding you?”

 _And there it is_. Let the fun begin.

“That's it, isn't it?” He looks outraged, with a side order of pensive. “You know, that explains so much of what you said to me when I showed up last night. You thought that I was avoiding you, and when I showed up and said what I said, it sounded like I just confirmed what you’d already thought. Right?”

“Something like that.”

“I mean I get where the misunderstanding came from, but what I don’t get is why you thought I’d be avoiding you in the first place.”

“It’s not like it’s unthinkable that you might change your mind, Snow.”

“Yes, it is. Or, it should have been. I mean, I told you in every way I know how that I love you and that I would do anything for you, including just flat out saying those words, over and over again. That's not going to suddenly stop being true because we're in New Eden instead of Oerba, or that fucking camp.”

Lightning gets up from the table, picking up her dish to wash. She needs something to do with her hands, or she’s going to fidget. She hates fidgeting.

“Hey wait, come here. No, come over here." He holds out a hand to her. She sighs, puts her dish down, and takes his hand, letting him haul her into the chair beside him. "I'm not angry at you,” he says, like he’s a goddamn mind reader. “I'm not even really confused. It makes sense, in a Lightning sort of way.”

"Gee, thanks." He laughs at her.

"No, seriously. You always make everything more complicated than it needs to be. You overthink _everything_. You know, except when you don't think at all, like when you charge out into a blizzard to march across the most dangerous territory on the planet. But let's just leave that shit out of this conversation for right now. We still have to have words about all that fuckery."

"No, we don't," she insists. Lightning knows everything Snow is going to say to her; Snow already knows all her justifications. Hashing it out is only going to lead to an argument.

"No, yeah. We do. But not right now. My point is, I know that you always assume the worst possible thing when it's about yourself. I know that about you. What I don't know is why, but I figure, I've got the rest of my life to work it out. So, I guess until then, I'm just going to keep saying things over and over again until you trust that you can believe them.”

“I do trust you, Snow.”

“Yeah, sure. You trust me to have your back. You trust me with your life. But apparently, you don’t trust me enough to believe that I’m serious when I say I love you.”

"It's not that I don't think you're serious. It's just…“ She doesn’t know what to say to him. How can she say ‘what the hell is wrong with you? Why would you choose me over my sister?’ without that turning into a whole after school special about low self-esteem?

"Just?"

"Never mind."

"No. I don't want to 'never mind.' How can I make you believe me?”

“I already said I do believe you.”

"We're going in circles. You don't believe me. You thought I was avoiding you because I’d decided I didn’t want you. That’s not you believing me. That’s the opposite of believing me, actually.”

"I do. I will. Can we talk about the more important thing?"

" _This_ is the more important thing, Lightning. _You_ are more important. _You believing me_ is more important. I don't want you thinking I'm avoiding you for no fucking reason. When have I ever avoided you?"

"You didn't." _I avoid you_ , she thinks. That's how she handles uncomfortable situations. Snow deals with them head on. She should've thought of that, but she didn't. She was too busy preparing to be hurt to realize that she was projecting. Snow would never avoid a confrontation with her. He'd track her ass down.

Like he did when he showed up at her house in the middle of the night; like he did when he followed her across the Steppe.

Like he did last night. Again.

"So, you're not going to tell me what the hell you were thinking until we talk about the other camp? Really?"

 _No. Not really. Not even then, actually,_ is what she doesn’t say.

"They’re a threat! And the fact that there’s another camp means that they’re an active threat. We have to go after them. We have to warn everyone. Oh my God, we have to warn Serah and your merry band of—“, he raises an eyebrow at her. "Your _friends._ " She laces the word with so much sarcasm that she may as well have called them _morons_.

Snow snorts at her. "What is your problem with them?"

"They're idiots."

"That's not nice."

" _I'm_ not nice."

He hums, unwilling to agree or disagree with her, proving once again that he’s not the dumbass everyone thinks he is. "Fuck nice," he concludes. She laughs.

"And who do you think you’re dealing with here? I already called them. Lebreau is staying with Serah anyway thanks to Sazh, so we don't have to worry about her being alone. Which is a relief! And Lebreau has everyone preparing defenses against any possible attacks. Not that I think they'll head there. Oerba is isolated and entrenched. But Sazh and I talked about adding some defenses to the top of the tower to make sure no hostiles can get near Oerba.”

“That's…good. You talked to Serah already?”

“Of course. You didn’t? What am I saying? Of course you didn’t, because then you wouldn’t have thought that I was avoiding you.”

“Well, I still have to talk to Serah about—“

“Us,” Snow says at the same time she says, “this. I can't… I need to talk to her. I can't just…not talk to her. I should've talked to her before—“

“Yeah. I know. Go call her.”

“It seems terrible doing this over the communicators.” She’s hedging. She knows it.

So does Snow, apparently. “Light. You can't put this off anymore.” He won’t let her. Not that she plans to.

Not really, anyway. “I'm not, okay?”

“Go. I'll…leave, if you want.”

“No. Just. Stay here. I'm going to go…in there.” She points at the bedroom.

“You know what? I’m just gonna run to my place to grab something to wear for later. If I show up to dinner tonight wearing the same clothes I was wearing yesterday, I’ll never hear the end of it from Fang. That woman loves breaking my balls.”

“Fang breaks everyone’s balls, Snow. That’s part of her charm.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” he gripes as he opens the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Okay?”

She nods, mind already on the conversation she’s dreading having.

* * *

_Part III  
in short, I was afraid_

Lightning closes the door to her bedroom behind her. Heaving huge breaths, she steels herself for what she knows will be the most difficult moment of her entire life. The idea of hurting Serah is still unimaginable to her, even as Lightning knows that she spent all last night breaking faith with her sister in the worst possible way. Moreover, she enjoyed every single second of it, and longs to do it all over again. And even though she hates herself for it, she doubts she’d be able to just walk away from Snow, even if that should be her sister’s wish.

Lightning’s a terrible person, and a worse sister. She’s always known that Serah was the best part of her, and now she’s torn that part out and destroyed it. There’s no reparation she can make, no restitution she could offer. No, she didn’t set out to steal her sister’s happiness, but she did it all the same. There is no punishment too severe for her betrayal, and she knows it’s time to submit herself to her sister for that punishment.

Lightning shakes as she stares at her communicator. It’s pathetic, how weak she is. Last week, she marched into a viper den, willingly submitted herself to the whims of murderers and rapists without a second thought. Now, she’s considering running again, rather than speaking with her baby sister.

_Pathetic._

Lightning knows that she should have called Serah before doing…anything like what she did last night. The truth is, that she had no clue what she’d even say to Serah, or if there was anything to say to Serah at all. She’d thought that Snow had made his decision, and that his choice wasn’t Lightning. Stolen kisses and tender words certainly don’t compare with years of commitment and marriage proposals, and Lightning figured Snow had realized that once their lives were no longer in immediate peril. No good would come of premature confessions from Lightning. She certainly had no intention of ruining her sister’s and Snow’s relationship over a few kisses exchanged under extreme duress.

But now, she’s waited too long. She was too rash and impatient. Lightning had wanted Snow – still wants him, if she’s to be honest – and she took him. Had him. Plans to have him again, she knows. She cannot say any of these things to Serah, but she must, and she would genuinely prefer to fight Barthandelus again than make this call right now.

She takes a breath and dials Serah. The communicator rings once before her sister’s voice comes through. “Claire? Please be you.”

Serah sounds scared, and Lightning feels the guilt like a gut punch all over again. “It’s me,” she confirms.

“Oh. Good,” Serah sighs. Then: “It’s about damn time! Sazh promised me that he’d make you call me as soon as you were safe, and here it is, five days later!”

“I’m sorry.” It sounds lame, even to her own ears.

“I know. You’re always sorry.”

“I—“

“Sazh called while you and Snow were in the infirmary,” Serah concedes, letting Lightning off the hook for her thoughtlessness. She’s always letting Lightning off the hook, it seems. “He told me you were both a bit banged up, desperately in need of sleep, but otherwise, fine.”

“Yeah. That about sums it up.”

“He also said that you two are heroes. That you freed a bunch of hostages from captivity.”

Lightning wishes that Sazh hadn’t told Serah any of the details of her mission, but there’s nothing to be done for it now. “Yeah. We did.”

“You said it was life and death…you weren’t kidding.” Lightning wonders if Serah thinks that she would lie about so serious an issue. She won’t ask that question, because she doesn’t want to know if her sister thinks she’s really that terrible.

“Yeah, it was important,” Lightning agrees. Then she admits, “But it was really rough.”

“It’s a good thing you had Snow to help you.” Lightning feels the ground tilting a bit, but it’s not so bad that she can’t keep her footing.

“Yeah. I wish things had been different,” she says, trying not to give away any details that Serah might not already have. “But I wouldn’t have made it out without him.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

 _What does she know?_ She really should’ve asked Snow what he told Serah, if anything. “Serah—“

“No, really. Are you just going to ignore the fact that Snow was there because he’s in love with you?” And there goes the floor, straight down to the bowels of hell. Lightning plops down on the bed, head spinning from Serah’s words. “That you took off in the middle of a blizzard because you’d rather face down a herd of rabid behemoths than deal with the fact that feelings are messy? Are we still pretending that’s not a thing?”

Lightning doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing.

“You are!” Serah spits. “You are unbelievable!”

Snow also called her unbelievable last night. Perhaps she ought to work on that problem. “What do you want me to say, Serah?”

“I want you to say that you are in love with Snow. Then, I want you to say that you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this.”

“What are you apologizing for? Do you even know?”

“What?”

“It doesn’t mean anything if you only apologize because I told you to.”

“I’m sorry for everything.”

“For everything? That’s specific. You know, I guess I have to tell you, since you can’t even admit that you and Snow are in love. I don’t want you to apologize for Snow falling in love with you, or you falling in love with Snow. Neither one of you wanted that to happen.”

“We didn’t plan anything. We never even talked about it before…”

“Before he showed up at your house and you ran screaming into the night?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, that’s what you need to apologize for: running away and putting your life, and Snow’s life at risk, rather than dealing with the problem. You risked the two people I love most in this world, and you need to apologize for it!”

“I am sorry for that, Serah. You’ll never know how sorry I am that I scared you, and that I dragged Snow into my mess.”

“But you’re not sorry that you left.”

“I left for a lot of reasons. You may not believe me, but it wasn’t all Snow. I needed not to be there anymore, and I won’t apologize for needing to get the hell out of that place.”

“Right then? That night, that way?”

“I’m sorry that I scared you.”

“But you’re not sorry that you put yourself in danger.”

“No. I’m not going to apologize for doing what I want to do with my life. I’m sorry that it scared you. I’m sorry that Snow, Sazh and Hope got dragged into it. I’m sorrier for that than I can ever express. But I’m not going to apologize for taking a risk, because that’s who I am, and what I do, and I would be lying to you if I apologize and pretend I won’t do it again.”

“What about Snow? Are you sorry you put him in danger?”

“You have no idea how sorry I am that Snow followed me,” Lightning snaps. “If I could make it so he stayed home with you, believe me, I would.”

“You just said you wouldn’t have gotten out of there without him.”

“And I still wish he hadn’t followed me, Serah.”

“You know, Claire, I love you. But I don’t understand you. And I don’t know why you don’t believe that I love you.”

The change of subject is so abrupt, it gives Lightning whiplash. “What do you mean? I do believe—“

“No, you don’t. If you believed that I loved you, you wouldn’t have thought I’d rather you die than find out that Snow wasn’t in love with me anymore.”

“That’s not why I wish Snow hadn’t followed me,” Lightning declares. “Besides, I knew leaving was going to upset and worry you, Serah, no matter what you found out about Snow.”

“And knowing that, you still did it? Why?”

“There were a lot of reasons, most of which have nothing to do with you at all. But as for the ones that do, it’s simple: I didn’t want to mess up your life.”

“No. That’s not why you left. I mean, I’m sure that’s part of it, but I’ve had time to think about everything, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly why you took off like you did.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. You left because it was too hard to stay and watch Snow marry me.”

It’s like a slap in the face. “I stayed for a year,” Lightning breathes.

“True. But we barely saw you. And of course, that was before Snow showed up at your house, wasn’t it?”

It’s not anything like the reasons Lightning had enumerated in her own mind, but it was always there. Lurking.

“You know how I know that I’m right, Claire? Other than the fact that you didn’t deny it, I mean? I know because that’s exactly how I feel.”

“I’m—“

“No, don’t start apologizing. That’s not why I’m telling you. I’m not telling you because I’m mad. I’m not mad…”

 _Bullshit_ , Lightning thinks.

As if Serah heard her silent rebuke, she continues: “…Alright, that’s a lie. I _am_ mad. But I don’t want to be mad. My head knows that neither one of you meant to hurt me. It’s my heart that’s having the issue understanding right now. And that’s why I’m telling you: don’t come back here. Not now. Maybe not for a while.”

“Serah—“

“This isn’t about being angry at you, okay? It’s about healing my heart. I don’t want to be angry, and most of the time, I’m not. Not really. I’m mad at the situation, not at you or Snow. But just because I understand, and love you both, and really want you both to be happy…that doesn’t mean that I can watch you two be in love and happy together right now.”

Here it is. Lightning always knew that this would be the price she’d have to pay to have Snow. She’d made a choice, and the cost of that choice is her sister. Lightning closes her eyes, feels the pain tear through her heart like a bullet, and tries to breathe through it.

Unaware of Lightning’s struggle, Serah barrels on. “But I know you, Claire! The answer isn’t for you to break Snow’s heart. The answer isn’t to hurt yourself, okay? I love you both, and it would break my heart more to know that the two of you are miserable. Snow doesn’t deserve that.” Even now, Serah is trying to protect Snow’s heart and give him what he wants. She’s loving him the only way she can anymore, and Lightning once again finds herself wondering how he made the choice he did. Serah is so much better than Lightning will ever be. “He tried really hard. He did. And I love him, and you better be good to him, because that’s something I won’t forgive! He deserves to be happy! And so do you, Claire!”

“You deserve to be happy, Serah. I can’t be happy if it comes at your expense.”

“But that’s what you expected me to do.”

“What?”

“You expected me to just marry Snow so I could be happy, even though he was in love with you, and wouldn’t have been happy with me, and you would’ve been miserable and heartbroken. How was that situation supposed to make me happy?”

Lightning drops her face into her hand. “What do you want me to say, Serah? You love Snow, and I know he loves you.”

“Snow loves everyone! That’s who he is! He’s got the biggest, most generous heart of any person I’ve ever known. But he’s _in love_ with you, Claire. He hasn’t been in love with me for a very long time. I should know; I lived with him for a year. And believe me: I know he _tried_. After Cocoon, and after I woke up, I knew he was different. But he still tried so hard to be the man he was, so he could give me what he thought would make me happy. He wanted that so much, that I know he would’ve married me if I hadn’t told him to leave. But as much as I thought I wanted to marry Snow, I know I didn’t want to marry a man who loves another woman. Why would I do that to either one of us? _To any of us?_ ”

Lightning feels the tears burning her eyes, but refuses to let the sounds slip past her lips. She owes it to Serah to hear her out.

“I wouldn’t. But I can’t just flip a switch, no matter how much I wish I could. So do me a favor, Sis. Don’t try to make yourself feel better about this by making yourself feel worse. Don’t hurt yourself because you think you hurt me. And don’t hurt Snow because he loves you and not me. If you want me to be happy, then make Snow happy. I couldn’t do it. Maybe you can. If he’s happy, I’ll be happy. And one day, my heart will heal. When it does, then I know that I will be able to be happy for the two of you up close and in person. Right now, I think watching that would just hurt too much. But not as much as it would hurt me to know that my heartache is all for nothing. You being miserable isn’t going to rewind time so Snow and I still love one another. Snow being alone isn’t going to make me happy.”

“You shouldn’t be alone, Serah. You don’t deserve this.”

“I’m not alone. Lebreau has been staying here, and she’s going to move in. It’s been fun to have a roommate, and this way, neither one of you two heroes can use my being alone as an excuse to show up here and sabotage everything. I don’t want you here. I want time and space.”

And the verdict is: excommunication from Serah’s life. If she didn’t love her sister so goddamn much, it might seem like Lightning is getting off easy, but the idea of not seeing her sister for years, or maybe ever, steals Lightning’s breath.

As though reading her mind, Serah says, “I want us to be a family again someday. I hope for that, anyway. But for now, you and Snow need to stay there, and I’m going to stay here. I just need some space. Please respect that. Don’t call me. Don’t come here. And I’m not kidding: if you break Snow’s heart, I’ll never forgive you.”

Serah hangs up on her, and Lightning lets out the sob that she’d been holding in. Serah had been kinder than Lightning deserved, and yet, Lightning still feels as though her sister gutted her. But if her sister wants space, she will give it to her. Lightning knows all about the need for space and solitude.

Lightning allows herself a few long minutes of self-pity, even as she knows that this punishment is nothing that she didn’t earn with interest. When she’s done crying, she heads into the bathroom and washes her face. She has no doubt Snow is back, and probably heard her crying, but she doesn’t want to discuss losing Serah with Snow.

This is her penance, and she will bear it alone.

Lightning steps out of the bedroom. Snow eyes her warily from the couch, and she knows that he’s feeling uncertain and apprehensive. This thing between them is new and fragile, and if there is one thing that could decimate it almost before it starts, it’s the right or wrong word or reaction from Serah. They both love her, and neither of them can stomach the idea of hurting her. Yet, they both know they have done so, and will continue to do so should they move forward together from here.

Resolved, Lightning walks past Snow into the kitchen and pours two glasses of red wine. She places one beside Snow. He catches her hand and tugs to get her attention. “So, how’d it go?”

She sighs her response before surprising him by settling in his lap. His arms wrap around her waist and he shifts against the back of the couch to get them both more comfortable. She reaches over and plucks his wine off the table, pressing the glass to his lips. His smile is both curious and intrigued as he sips the wine.

Placing both glasses of wine back on the table, Lightning wraps her arms around Snow’s neck, leans in, and savors the taste of the rich wine on his palate. He hums as she sucks on his tongue, sliding his hand up her leg until it settles on her hipbone. Breaking away from his mouth, she says, “She says that if I break your heart, she’ll break my neck.”

Snow gawks at her for a second before exclaiming: _“She did not!”_

“Maybe not in those exact words, but that was the round up. She also says that I should make you happy.” She stands up and shimmies out of her leggings. Her tank top joins her leggings on the floor as she backs away from Snow. Snow shifts to get up but stills when she wags her finger and shakes her head at him. He leans back, spreads his legs and takes a sip of his wine.

“How can I make you happy? Let me think.” She taps her fingers to her lips, then snaps them. “I’ve got it.” Swaying her hips and licking her lips earns her a deep groan from the back of Snow’s throat; dropping to her knees and crawling towards him gets him panting. She settles between his spread legs, pushes everything else from her mind, and loses herself in the feeling of making love to Snow for a good, long while.

* * *

_Part IV  
the evenings, mornings, afternoons_

After learning the benefits of having a comfortable sofa that doesn’t stick you with springs at inopportune moments, Lightning dragged Snow back to bed, where she once again coaxed the loveliest sounds out of him. Now, she drowses in his arms, one leg thrown across his hip. His fingers glide over her skin, and unbelievably, she can feel him stirring with interest yet again.

Two thoughts hit Lightning at once: _this man is a sex god_ , and _we’re going to kill one another._ Then, _yeah, but what a way to go!_

“So, do we have to go to dinner? I don’t want to get out of bed.” He presses against her and she can feel why he doesn’t want to get out of bed.

“Yes, we have to go to Sazh’s for dinner.” She looks at the clock, thinks about everything they need to do before they leave for Sazh’s and says, “And we definitely have to get out of this bed. _Now._ ”

 _“But why!?”_ He whines like a brat. His fingers skate along her flank, tracing over her ribs, swirling around her hipbone, before meandering along the waistband of her panties, up to her navel where he traces the outline of it, moving back up to where he started, then repeating the whole journey. Over and over, until her whole world narrows down to his fingertips, and the anticipation winding up her whole body like a watch.

_Focus, Lightning._

“Because Sazh is our friend,” she replies. “Because he invited us, and we’re celebrating surviving, and all being together again,” she continues, talking to herself as much as Snow. “Besides, we can’t live on sex, Snow.”

“But we haven’t even _tried_.” She huffs a laugh, wondering how he can sound so earnest while clearly joking. “It’s not like you to give up without even trying, Lightning.”

“I’m _hungry_ , Snow.” There’s only so far that sandwich is going to go considering their level of activity for the past eighteen hours. “Aren’t you hungry?”

 _“Famished,”_ he whispers. His hand slips beneath the waistband of her panties while his mouth finds the bruise he’d left on her neck.

She giggles and moans. “You’re incorrigible.”

“…That a good thing?” he asks before proving that he doesn’t much care. Her eyes flutter closed.

 _“…Yes,”_ she breathes. “It’s a very good thing. But I still need food. And a shower. We smell like sex.”

“I love the smell of sex,” he growls. Then his hand disappears and his whole demeanor shifts. “But a shower sounds great. Let’s go.”

Wait, what? Oh, _hell no!_ If they shower together, they’ll never be ready in time! “Alone, Snow.”

“Nope. Nothing in the rules for preparing for dinner says anything about me not getting to enjoy you soapy in a shower. Let’s go. I’ll wash your hair. You can wash my back.” He climbs out of bed, stretches, then holds his hand out to Lightning in invitation.

She considers getting her hands on a wet, desperate Snow, and wonders what, exactly, is wrong with her. She can’t think of anything she’d enjoy more than using her tongue to chase cascading water droplets through the peaks and valleys of Snow’s well-muscled body. And while his favorite pastime is trying to get her to scream for him, she’s in love with his every incoherent monosyllabic plea.

She lets him pull her out of the bed and lead her to the shower.

* * *

_Part V  
perfume from a dress_

Freshly showered and well-satisfied, Lightning stands in front of the mirror in the bathroom, towel tied between her breasts, taking stock of all the damage. She is flushed all over, and not just from the shower. Her lips are still swollen, and considering how much she has been indulging herself in the taste of Snow’s mouth, she figures that’s not likely to change. The past few days had allowed her enough time to sleep, finally chasing away the dark circles from under her eyes. All things considered, she looks okay.

Then there’s the bruises. The one from the rifle butt is finally healing, but that just makes the right half of her face look mottled with sickly yellows and greens. The point of impact by her temple is scabbed over, turning the once open wound into what looks like a reddish brown spider surrounded by crimson and purple webbing.

That fucker hit her much harder than she’d realized. She’s lucky his aim was off, allowing her cheekbone to take the main impact. A few millimeters in one direction, and it would’ve been a direct hit to the temple, which could’ve killed her. Another direction would’ve been a direct hit to the orbital bone. That could’ve ruined her eye. As it is, it was a painful hit that left her with a hideous bruise splashed from her hairline to her lower jaw, but no actual complications or permanent damage.

She pulls out her makeup bag, and sorts through her few items to see if she has anything that will help cover it up for the night. She’d just like to look decent tonight. Hell, she’s even got a little black dress and boots picked out for the occasion. They’re having a party – Vanille’s word, not hers – and she’d like to look good, especially after a week of looking like something a cat coughed up.

Okay, so she wants to look pretty for a certain big blond dumbass, not that she’d ever admit to any such thing. The truth is, there’s something addictive about the way Snow looks at her, and even though it’s only been a handful of days since she noticed that look even existed, she’d really like him to keep looking at her like that. Preferably every day, forever. 

After doing her best – which is not very good, let’s be honest – to cover up the bruises on her face, she moves onto the love bites on her neck. Considering the fingerprint bruises around her throat from her tussle in the garage, and the bandages from the bite that Jace had taken when she was ‘captured, Lightning isn’t all that concerned about one or two love bites drawing attention. She’s already a banged up mess.

She gives up trying to do anything with the makeup, applies some strawberry lip gloss, pins up her hair, readjusts her towel, and exits the bathroom.

The bedroom reeks of sex. No big shock there, all things considered.

Lightning pulls out a fresh set of sheets and bends to strip the bedding off the mattress just as Snow walks back into the room. He gives her a heated, lascivious look from across the room, which she does her best to ignore.

They don’t have time for sex, another shower, and for her to do her hair and makeup again, so he needs to cut it out, now.

When she bends to smooth the wrinkles out of the fresh sheets, he comes to stand behind her, putting his hand on her stomach, and pressing the front of his body against the length of her back. He kisses her neck, fingers finding the tie on the towel to loosen it.

“Snow—“

“You’re just too tempting to resist.”

She shrugs him off. “We don’t have time, Snow.”

“Oh, that’s the attitude of a quitter! There’s plenty of time! Here. Let me prove it,” he slips his hand between the folds of the towel.

She bats his hand away. “I’m changing the sheets—“

“I liked those sheets!”

“—then we’re getting dressed and going to dinner.” She stalks over to the closet and pulls out her dress and boots.

“Wait, you mean I gotta wear clothes, too!”

“To Sazh’s?!” _What in the world?_

Snow cracks up. “You should see the look on your face, Light!” She just huffs and throws the dirty sheets at him. He picks them up, looking sheepish. “Fine. I promise I’ll behave from now through the end of dinner, if you promise _not_ to behave when we get back. And to wear those boots to bed.”

She looks at the boots that she’s planning to wear tonight. They’re black suede, rise above her knees, and, best of all, hide multiple knives for personal defense. Plus, she looks damn good in them. She wouldn’t mind seeing how they’d look over Snow’s shoulders. “Done. But I’ll have to take the knives out first.”

“That’s my girl,” Snow says as he takes the sheets to the laundry. “But leave the knives! I want to frisk you, later.”

* * *

_“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”  
 **—W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming**_

_Part VI  
till human voices wake us_

****

Lightning is just finishing up getting dressed to go to Sazh’s when her communicator makes some godawful sound

“What the hell is that?” Snow yells from the bedroom. Lightning ignores him and answers the communicator.

“Yeah?”

“Oi fuckin’ Oi!”

“Why did my communicator make that horrific sound?”

“It’s my very own, personalized ringtone, just for you, sunshine. You’re welcome!”

“Change it.”

“Oh, don’t be like that! It’s just a joke.” Lightning heaves a huge sigh. “I thought you missed me, buttercup. Change your mind already?”

“Not yet, but keep working on it. I’m sure I’ll get there.”

“You love me and you know it!”

Smiling, Lightning shakes her head at the communicator.

“I hear the marbles rattlin’ round in your head, gumdrop.”

“What are you calling for? I’m going to see you in a little while.”

“There’s three things, actually. One, this is my communicator number! Sazh made ‘em special for me and Vanille.”

“That’s why he’s your very favorite, right?”

“Absolutely!”

“Two?”

“The second thing is a question: have you seen the Hero? He hasn’t been home all night.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because I broke into his place last night and this morning, and he hasn’t been there. Think he’s out tom cattin’?”

“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him if I see him.”

“ _If._ Uh huh. Sure thing, sweet pea. Sounds good.”

“And three?”

“This is real talk time. I didn’t want it coming up tonight at dinner, but I didn’t want to wait anymore.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s about how Vanille and I woke up.”

“Oh. Okay. Tell me,” Lightning says, feeling oddly apprehensive.

“Well, yeah. See the thing is, you’re the one that woke us up. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“It’s more like, the thing you woke up, woke us up.”

 _The thing I woke up? Uh oh._ “Huh?”

“Whatever mojo you conjured up with your little plea for help? Something out there heard it, and now it’s awake. And coming.”

“To help?” Not a fucking chance, but she figures she’d try for optimism for once. If only for a change.

“I sincerely doubt that, but I have no idea. It could be coming to braid your hair for all I know. What I do know is that it’s old, it’s powerful, and when you screamed into the void, it took notice, probably tried screaming right back at ya – hopefully to tell you to shut up – and that was enough to shove me and Vanille right out of crystal stasis. Get me?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah. Me neither. Cosmic Horrors have never been my best subject.”

“Cosmic horrors?”

“Yeah, you know, beasties and nasties that are so old and powerful that it’s impossible to comprehend them without losin’ what few marbles you still have? Those things. I really don’t know anything more about it, but to be fair, no one does. That’s why people avoid talking about them and thinking about them. And they definitely avoid screaming at them and waking them up.”

“And you’re telling me that you think it’s after me.”

“I don’t know. But what I do know is that Sazh is already doing research. We’ll figure this out, sweet cheeks, don’t you worry your pretty little head none. But you should probably tell the Hero, though. Break it to him gentle-like. Just in case it’s hot for his bod, you know? After all, the screaming you were doin’ was about him, yeah?”

As though he could hear Fang talking about him, Snow chooses that moment to come into the living room. Lightning glances at him, then does a double-take at the sight. Snow looks edible in black slacks and a black double breasted jacket with black boots. Lightning’s mouth goes dry at the sight, and her fingers tighten on the communicator. Snow catches her staring and she feels her face flush in both embarrassment and arousal. He looks her up and down, then gives her a knowing smirk and wink.

Wait, what was she doing? Oh yeah! Big Bad en route.

“Fang says there’s some big nasty eldritch horror coming that _may_ be targeting you, but is definitely looking for me.”

Snow blinks. _“What?”_

“That’s your idea of gentle-like? I’m starting to feel bad for the hero.”

Lightning just shrugs and shakes her head at him. “Gotta go, Fang. I’ll see you at dinner. And yeah, I’ll let Snow know you broke into his place.”

“Wait! She w _hat?_ ”

“Tell ‘em I think he’ll look especially fetching in the blue silk boxers I found. Yum. Toodles!” Fang’s laugh sounds like a cackle as she disconnects the call.

So that happened, apparently.

* * *

_Part VII  
tea and cakes and ices_

Dinner is a surprisingly quiet affair, considering the sort of antics the six of them usually get up to together. Lightning assumes that everyone was on their best behavior because Dajh was at the table, and the last thing that anyone wanted to do was force Sazh to shoot them in front of his six year old son. But now, Fang is telling Dajh a bedtime story while Vanille is in the kitchen, preparing for dessert.

At the table, Sazh pours Fang, Vanille and Lightning glasses of berry wine, and opens two more bottles of his special homebrew: one for himself, and one for Snow.

“Can I have one of those?” Hope asks.

Lightning, Sazh and Snow all say, “No,” at the same time.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a kid, Kid,” Snow replies unhelpfully.

“Cause your daddy wouldn’t appreciate a bunch of grownups feeding alcohol to his teenage son. That’s why.”

Lightning just sums it up with, “Because I said so.”

And that’s that.

“But Sazh, you let me have a glass of Fang’s rotgut.”

Snow and Lightning both cast horrified looks to Sazh. Instead of looking sheepish, Sazh looks murderous. Hope goes ghost pale, and Lightning wonders what exactly is happening.

“There were…extenuating circumstances for that, Hope.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“What circumstances?” Snow asks “What are you two talking about?”

Sazh just stares at Hope, eyebrow raised as if daring him to answer.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Snow looks back and forth between Sazh and Hope, then looks at Lightning, as though she might have a fucking clue what’s going on right now.

She just shrugs.

“Oh- _kay_ ,” Snow says, clearly feeling as confused as Lightning.

Lightning picks up her wine and takes a sip. If Sazh and Hope don’t want to talk about it, that’s their prerogative. There’s plenty she doesn’t want to talk about.

Like the fact that Snow’s hand is resting between the hem of her dress, and the top of her boot. She gives him the side-eye, but he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy talking with Sazh about some random topic that has nothing to do with whatever Hope was referencing, and Lightning has a feeling she should be relieved about that. After all, if the circumstances were so extenuating that Sazh poured a glass of Fang’s ‘Good Stuff’ for Hope, then Lightning doubts that she wants to hear about it in the middle of their reunion dinner.

Tonight was supposed to be about celebrating and giving thanks for surviving their ordeal, rescuing all the hostages, escaping the camp, and even managing to procure a new Havoc Skytank for the colony – although Lightning insists that it’s Sazh’s Skytank, not the colony’s – to say nothing of the miraculous return of Fang and Vanille.

So discussing whatever horrific shit led Sazh to willingly pour Hope a glass of Liquid Death can wait. It’ll keep.

Just then, Fang appears from the back room, rubbing her hands together and saying, “Alright-y then. Kiddie is all tucked in snug as a bug. Let’s start this party, already!”

Sazh raises his drink and Fang clinks her glass against his. The two take sips of their drinks. “You didn’t tell my son any horror stories, did you? Because if he has a nightmare, I’m calling you and keeping you awake all night, too.”

“There are better ways to keep a lady up all night. Ain’t that right, Hero?”

Snow’s hand squeezes Lightning’s knee, but his face is one of absolute confusion. “Huh?”

“Playing dumb, are we?”

“Who’s playing?” Hope asks, as Sazh snorts out his drink.

“Real nice, Kid!” Hope just beams at Snow and Lightning chuckles into her wine.

“Hey!” Snow says, leaning towards her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.” His fingers move in small circles on her leg. He splays his fingers just a bit, allowing his pinkie to worm its way under her skirt. She doesn’t trust her voice not to crack right now, so she just nods and takes another sip of her wine.

“Here, let me get that for you,” Snow says before refilling her glass. She really shouldn’t have another glass, but the wine has softened the world’s edges, making everything look just a bit less real, and feel a bit more magical. She takes another drink and savors the taste. “Good?” Snow asks, squeezing her thigh.

“Mm. _Very._ ”

“Dessert! I hope you all like pie a la mode! It’s all homemade!” Vanille lays out a big pie and a huge bowl of what looks like vanilla ice cream, placing them beside the teapot.

“God love ya, Vanille,” Fang says, grabbing the knife and cake server to cut a huge piece of pie, while Vanille serves everyone tea. She puts it in front of Sazh, and passes the next piece to Hope. “Pass it on, Kid,” Fang says, before handing him another piece.

Snow passes a piece over to Lightning and says, “None for me, thanks!”

“You don’t like pie?” Vanille asks, putting a cup of tea in front of Hope. “I made it special for tonight.”

“I’m just not a big fan of succulent fruit pie.” Under the table, he runs his hand up Lightning’s thigh and says, “I’m a huge fan of cream pie, though.”

Lightning narrows her eyes at him; Sazh chokes on his pie, and reaches for his cup of tea. Fang snickers into her hand. Vanille looks confused, which makes Fang laugh even harder. Snow sits back in his chair, trying to look innocent, and failing.

Lightning leans toward Snow and whispers, “You’re filthy, Snow.” She somehow fails to sound properly outraged.

It might have something to do with the hand resting just above her knee, thumb tucked under the top of her boot, long fingers spread wide, tracing lazy patterns on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

He removes the hand from her knee, places it on the back of her chair. He leans in close to her, and his other hand suddenly appears on her knee, right before he slides it up under her skirt. Snow palms her thigh, long fingers brushing the seam of her panties as he whispers in her ear, “Yeah, baby. But you love how filthy I am.” Backing away a bit, Snow gazes into her eyes as his clever fingers brush against her. Her lips part on a tiny gasp.

He inhales a small, sharp breath, pink tongue poking out to wet his plump lips. A flush blossoms high on Snow’s sharp cheekbones, spreading outward until his golden skin is tinted a fetching shade of rose. God, he makes her crazy.

Bolting up from her seat, Lightning catches Snow’s ear between her thumb and forefinger, hauling him out of his chair. “Excuse us for a minute.”

“What’s the problem?” Hope asks. “I love cream pie,” and Fang bursts out into fits of hysteria. _“What?”_

 _“Fang!”_ Vanille whispers. She’s obviously caught onto the double entendre, and has shifted her focus to reining in Fang. Fang laughs so hard, she sounds like she’s about to choke on her (not cream) pie.

Lightning pulls Snow through the kitchen, into the back foyer, closes the door and shoves him against the wall. He’s got a wicked glint in his eye, and a pleased smirk on his face. “I can’t take you anywhere,” she declares, before pulling his head down and kissing him.

He twists her against the wall, slides his hands over her ass to grab the backs of her thighs and lift her up. Slotting himself between her spread legs, Snow leans into her, humming his pleasure into her ear. When she shivers, he does it again, adding a gust of hot breath into the mix.

“ _Oh no!”_ Snow whispers, close enough to her ear that his lips and tongue brush the shell or lobe with every word. “Does that mean we have to just…stay home from now on? _In bed_.” How he makes every word he speaks sound like sex actually feels is a mystery that Lightning can’t wait to investigate. Often and thoroughly. “Whatever will we do to pass the time?” He answers his own question by shifting his hips against her _just so._ Heat spreads through her like wildfire, causing her whole body to blush. She bites her lip to stifle the moan when he repeats the motion. “I think I have an idea or two.”

“Later,” she pants. She should probably stop shimmying against him if she wants to go back into the dining room. Otherwise, everyone is going to see a whole lot more of Snow than anyone wants to see.

Except Lightning. But then, that’s the point, right?

 _“Now._ Let’s get out of here. They’re not going to miss us.”

That’s a blatant and ridiculous lie. The six of them are together for the first time in over a year. Fang and Vanille are sitting at the table, serving them dessert. They came back because Snow and Lightning needed them. Of course, they’ll be missed.

She opens her mouth to explain why they can’t just disappear in the middle of dessert without saying goodbye; Snow cuts off her explanation by rolling his hips against her. She tosses her head back and thumps it on the wall behind her.

Snow places a soft kiss on her lips, then another on her neck as the hand bracing her up slides over the bare skin of her thigh and bottom. He grunts, then chuckles against her throat as his fingers find what they are seeking. He moans – a sound deep and thick with arousal and need – and it’s almost all subsonic vibration. He whispers, “Fuck, Light. You’re so wet for me already.” His finger presses, and he captures her gasp in his mouth, keeps it a secret between them. “Ten minutes,” he says against her lips. Then he grinds into her again, belt buckle and burgeoning erection pressing into her just right.

 _For the love of—!_ “Five,” she breathes.

“My kind of negotiation.” He chuckles against her neck before putting her back on her feet and giving her a quick, closed-mouth, almost chaste kiss, striking such an odd contrast to the smolder and filth of his earlier behavior that Lightning kind of regrets arguing to stay at all. He smooths and straightens her clothes, wipes his thumb under her bottom lip, tucks her hair behind her ear before leaning in to whisper, “I love you” into it.

“I know,” she says. He swats her on the ass as she walks past him through the door to the kitchen.

They go back to the table to find Hope still asking Sazh what’s so funny about liking cream pies, Vanille blushing to the roots of her hair, Sazh stammering, and Fang laughing so hard that she’s gasping for air, looking like she might just fall out of her chair at any minute.

“See what you did?” Snow gives her his best, ‘who me?’ look. She shakes her head at him and he just shrugs, and sits down like he wasn’t ready to fuck her in Sazh’s foyer a minute ago.

Lightning can feel Snow’s gaze on her skin like a physical touch. She feels flushed, hypersensitive. The soft fabric of her dress whispers against her breasts with every shift and Lightning is glad that, while she actually did implement her ‘no more bras’ policy, she didn’t forgo a camisole. She watches Snow down the rest of his drink, catches him looking at her ass out of the corner of his eye.

She loves the way he looks at her: like he can’t decide if he wants to worship her, or devour her. She understands completely, because that’s how she feels every time she looks at him. She can’t imagine how she lived her whole life without this feeling, but now that she has it, she doesn’t want to spend another moment without it.

She doesn't know what the hell is wrong with her. Twenty-four hours ago, she'd have sworn that she and Snow needed to stay away from one another. Now, all she wants is to get him alone again, peel off his clothes, and press her lips to every inch of his golden skin.

Has it been five minutes yet?

Lightning picks up the dishes, and Sazh says, “Leave that, Soldier.”

“No, I’m going to help you clean up.” That way, she doesn’t have to feel guilty about leaving immediately so Snow can keep his promise to frisk her.

Mm. Those hands all over her, searching for all the weapons she’s concealed on her person. He’s going to have to be thorough, because she certainly was.

“Oh, please! Who are you kidding? Just put that down, take the Hero home and give him his cream pie already.” Lightning is proud that she doesn’t drop the pile of tableware in her shock.

“Fang!” Vanille tries to scold, but the laugh in her voice gives her away.

“You have cream pie, Light?” Lightning wishes that an amphisbaena would smash through the ceiling and swallow her whole. _Never a monster or eldritch horror around when you need one to make you disappear._ “Why didn’t you bring it for Snow?”

Snow coughs into his hand to cover up the laugh. Her face feels like it’s on fire. She almost wishes that her face was _actually_ on fire; at least then, Lightning wouldn’t have to deal with Hope continuing to unwittingly make innuendos about her sex life.

Fang snorts her tea out of her nose, and then yells, “Ow. That hurts. Don’t do that, Kid!”

“What did I do?”

Sazh has his face in both hands and he’s grumbling about ‘these damn kids.’ Vanille gets up to take over the job of clearing the table while Fang gets herself back under control. Fang takes one look at Lightning’s face and bursts out laughing at her all over again.

“You’re not subtle, are ya?” Fang says. “You should give up that idea right now. Besides, you two have been circling one another since I met you. You fought over nonsense all the time. I expected you’d kill one another within a week. When you didn’t, I figured you were headed down, shall we say, an alternative route. And here we are!”

Snow clears his throat and Lightning looks at him, expecting to see a smug grin. But Snow always manages to surprise her, and today is no different. Instead of one of his self-satisfied, shit-eating grins, he’s smiling at her with such warmth and gazing at her with such adoration, that she says a silent ‘what the hell,’ and kisses him right there in front of her friends.

That shocks him, seemingly more than most of the others.

Fang wolf whistles, claps once and says, “Uh huh! See? What’d I tell ya, Vanille?”

Grumbling, Sazh reaches into his pocket, pulls out a credit chip, and hands it over to Fang.

“Thank you. You really are my very favorite, Sazh.”

“Wait! Seriously? You bet on us?”

“What? Do you need a fainting couch, sunshine?”

Snow snorts out a laugh at her and she gives him a death glare. He puts both hands up in surrender. “When?” Lightning asks, never taking her eyes off Snow.

“It wasn’t this week, I’ll tell you that!”

“Okay,” Hope starts, “am I really the only one who is surprised right now?”

Fang holds up her credit chip and says, “Uh, yeah, Kid. Isn’t that what I just said?”

“But...” Hope looks back and forth between Snow and Lightning, then back at Sazh: “But…”

“Just let it go, Hope,” Sazh advises.

“Yeah, you ain’t gonna figure out how this stuff works by watchin’ it, are ya? You gotta do it.”

 _“Fang,”_ Vanille says, and somehow, Lightning recognizes this rendition of Fang’s name as a serious warning.

“Nah, I didn’t mean it like it sounded, Kid. I just meant, uh, that you can’t predict this stuff. The heart’s a stupid, stubborn thing. Like the Hero. It just wants what it wants, and to hell with what makes sense.”

“You know what? I can’t tell if that was an insult. Light?”

“She did call you stupid,” Lightning tells him, though she’s not quite sure how to take it either.

“Yeah. _Stupid like love_. I’m taking it as a compliment,” Snow says, to which Fang replies, “Cheers!”

Hope grumbles: “You would.”

Lightning gives Hope a hard stare, watching the boy wilt more and more each second. He finally relents and bites out, “If you two are happy, then I guess I’m happy for you.”

He sounds bitter and resentful, but she figures he’ll get over it, eventually. All in all, that went better than Lightning had ever expected it to go.

“Thanks, Hope. I appreciate that,” Lightning says, and then she leans down and kisses Snow again, once beside his mouth. She wipes her lip gloss away with her thumb, then places a soft kiss on his lips. He smirks at her, winks, and she picks up their dishes and walks out of the room.

She hears Snow lean back in his seat, and Lightning can feel his eyes on her all the way into the kitchen. “Thanks, kid. I mean it.”

Lighting’s not all that interested in justifying her feelings to anyone right now. She’s already had this conversation with the only person whose opinion matters to her, and that’s that. She’s not going to put up with bullshit from people who have no actual stake in their lives. Although to be fair, Sazh isn’t judging her, Vanille couldn’t possibly care less, Fang seems amused, and perhaps even pleased for them; and if Hope has a problem? Well, he’ll get over it.

Vanille passes Lightning in the kitchen, puts a hand on her arm and says, “I know you love him. I’m glad everyone knows it, now. It’s not often we get second chances. Hope loves you both. Don’t let him upset you. He’ll come around. If he doesn’t, I’ll kick his ass for you.”

“I’m sure he’ll get over it. He’s still got this…resentment towards Snow. I doubt this is going to help it.”

“He loves Snow,” Vanille declares. “But Snow casts a big shadow, and I think Hope is afraid that no one will ever be able to see _him_ as long as Snow is around.”

 _Huh,_ Lightning thinks, but what she means is _Eureka!_

Was Vanille always this insightful?

Then Lightning remembers that last year, Vanille had hid the truth from everyone – including Fang – for months, including hiding her true self behind a dingbat persona. She’d always known more than she said, and observed more than she’d ever let on, but managed to fly beneath everyone’s radar by acting like an empty-headed bimbo.

Vanille is sneaky.

She walks back into the room to hear Snow saying, “You should definitely try and hang out with her! She’s a good girl!”

“She’s not interested in hanging out with me,” Hope says. “She’s already interested in someone else.”

“Oh yeah? Who?” Hope gives Snow the dirtiest look Lightning has ever seen.

Snow, never as oblivious as he pretends to be, just says, “Well, whatever. I just thought it’d be good for you to hang out with people your own age. You’re going to end up old like us before you know it.”

“You’re 22, Snow!” Hope snaps.

“Yeah? I feel like I’m ten times that right now.” The mood at the table gets serious, and from the look on Snow’s face, that wasn’t his intention. 

Lightning brushes past Snow to pick up Sazh and Fang’s dishes, dropping her hand on Snow’s shoulder as she passes, then running it down his chest. She bends to whisper in his ear: “It’s going to take some time, that’s all.” He nods, lifts her hand from where it rests over his heart and kisses it.

Lightning resumes her task of clearing the table as Hope says, “Oh, you two are just going to give me _diabetes_ , aren’t you?”

 _“Shaddup,”_ Snow retorts, throwing a balled up napkin at Hope.

Hope squawks out a “Hey!” and hurls something back.

“Don’t you _dare_ start a food fight at my table! I will shoot you both dead where you sit! Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, Kid, don’t throw shit at the table.”

“He started it! Light!”

“Snow—“

“Real nice, Kid. You’re a rat.”

“And you’re a dog about to hump Lightning’s leg at the table.”

“Hey!” Lightning snaps.

“How do you know she’s not the one humping my leg, huh?”

 _“Snow!”_ Lightning squawks, eyes rounded in horror.

 _“What?"_ He looks at her, winces when he realizes that he may have actually crossed a line. "Fine. We’re out of here.” He stands and retrieves their coats from the closet. Sazh gets up to see them out, shaking Snow’s hand and letting Lightning kiss him on the cheek without too much stammering. “Alright, come on, tipsy lady. None of that,” Snow murmurs in her ear. “It’s not nice to give the host heart failure.”

“Thanks for dinner, Sazh! Fang, it was…fun? I guess. Vanille, it was a pleasure as always. Take it easy, Kid." Snow shrugs into his coat, then helps Lightning into hers. "We’ll talk to you all tomorrow. Late tomorrow. Don’t bother us early. And, um…call before you stop by, okay? Just to be safe.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t want to go blind,” Sazh says.

“Take pictures!”

“Fang!” Vanille scolds, sounding mortified. That girl knows how to make that one word work in any situation, that’s for sure! Lightning figures that spending hundreds of years loving someone has that effect.

“Oh, she knows I’m just kidding, Vanille!" Fang looks at Lightning, winks, and mimes taking pictures at her until Lightning smirks, shakes her head and mouths 'you're ridiculous,’ back. Fang smirks at her, then looks Snow up and down, and gives Lightning two thumbs up.

Heaving a huge sigh, Lightning shakes her head at Fang.

She’s impossible, but God, Lightning missed her!

“Please!” Hope yelps. “I don’t want to know. Ever! Old people shouldn’t have sex!” to which he’s treated to a chorus of: “Oi!” “Hey now!” “Old?” “Hope!”

“Just enjoy your cream pie, kid,” is Snow's parting shot at Hope. Lightning rolls her eyes and pulls Snow's hat on his head. He winks at her, and threads his fingers through hers. Snow leans down and brushes a kiss beside her lips.

Hope makes gagging sounds and yells, “Get a room!” Sazh grumbles and shakes his head; Fang bursts out laughing again as Snow places his hand on the small of Lightning’s back and guides her from the house, tossing a wave over his shoulder.

The last thing she hears as they close the door behind them is: “But seriously, what is so funny about cream pie?”

* * *

_VIII  
Do I dare?_

They get to the porch and Snow pulls Lightning to him. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Who are you kidding? You love making me uncomfortable."

He chuckles, and nods. "Yeah, but not like this. Not about…us. The last thing I want is to make you regret this."

"Hey," she whispers, and waits for him to meet her eyes. "You didn't. Don’t worry about that."

Snow leans down and kisses her again, then says, “So, it’s pretty fucking cold out. Wanna take my ride?”

“Your ride?”

He laughs as a familiar magic coalesces around them heralding the arrival of Snow’s Eidolon – the Shiva sisters. Lightning barely catches a glimpse of them before they do…whatever the hell it is they do to become Snow’s favorite toy. “You know, _my ride._ ” He sweeps his arm out in a flourish.

“Oh! You mean the two semi-naked women that you pass off as a motorcycle? That ride?”

Snow smirks, and pulls her toward him by the hips. “Don’t be like that, baby. You’ll hurt their feelings.”

“You call Odin a creep all the time. All I did was describe your ‘ _ride_.’”

“He _is_ a creep. But these are my _girls_! And you’re my girl. And I get to have all my girls with me at once!” Snow walks over to Shiva and gets on the bike, patting the seat behind him.

“You know it’s love when I let you get away with calling me a girl all the time,” Lightning mutters.

Snow freezes, then blinks at her. “What’d you just say?”

“What?”

“Say that again.”

“That I let you get away with calling me a girl?”

“Yeah, but not that part.” Snow dismounts his bike and cups her cheeks. “Come on, Light. Just say it again.”

“I—“

He looks so hopeful, and Lightning feels terrible, but she’s frozen. He arches his brow.

“—can’t.”

“Come on! You can’t just say that without a guy being ready for it!”

“I can’t. It’s too much pressure. And they’re right there!” Lightning points at the motorcycle.

Snow looks disappointed, and ready to argue, but instead, he leans in and kisses her. “All right. I can wait. I’m a patient man.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not. But for you, I’ll wait as long as I have to.” He turns and climbs back onto the bike. “Come on, Girl. Let’s get home.”

She climbs behind him, surprised when the bike isn’t freezing. Then again, Odin isn’t electric. She wraps her arms around Snow’s waist, and wonders why three little words terrify her.

* * *

_IX  
Force the moment to its crisis  
  
_

Snow walks Lightning to the door of her apartment building, planning to run home and grab his pack. Apparently, Fang found time to fill him in on the Thing from the Void, and instead of rolling his eyes as Lightning had, he immediately started worrying saying, “if there’s some fucking thing gunning for you, Light, then I plan to be there when it shows up. I mean, we’re in this together, right?”

“We don’t even know that there’s anything to worry about?” He arches an eyebrow at her and huffs.

“I meant, everything. We’re in this together. Aren’t we?”

“Is this your subtle way of telling me that you’re moving in with me?”

“Was I being subtle? I wasn’t trying to be.” He snickers. “Nah, I’m not getting rid of my place. But yours is nicer. I think Sazh likes you better than me.”

“What did you expect when you said all that shit about him?”

“Yeah, but I never said it _to_ him.”

“No. You just _told_ him you said it about him.”

“Oh, yeah! Maybe I shouldn’t have done that, huh?” He smiles. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes. Then don’t be making plans to go anywhere anytime soon. _I have_ _plans_ ,” he says, giving her a kiss. “Now, get that cute ass inside.”

She shoves him, but smiles, and if there’s a bit more sway to her walk, and swing in her hips than usual, then they’re the only ones who will ever know it.

“I love you,” he says, as he climbs back on Shiva and takes off for his place.

She walks up the three flights of stairs – Sazh had to have called in a lot of favors for this place – to her apartment. The wine has mellowed her, quieting her mind enough to allow her to relax and enjoy the evening. Everything feels just a bit fuzzy, all the hard points softened, all the sharp edges smoothed off, colors just slightly smeared together, like all the objects of the world were created with watercolors and cray-pas pastels. For a moment, Lightning wonders if this is just what it’s like to be in love.

Or drunk.

Probably drunk.

At the door to her apartment, Lightning feels the tiny hairs all over her body stand at attention. The skin on the back of her neck feels like it’s crawling, like there’s someone watching her, and not anyone she wants looking. Lightning slips a knife from the top of her boot and the key into her door at the same time.

Lightning slinks into the apartment, and closes the door silently behind her. Leaving the lights off, she slides along the exterior wall, moving away from the closed bedroom door. The far corner of the living room gives her an unobstructed view into the kitchen. Someone could be hiding in the blind spot created by the breakfront.

As she approaches the first window, she draws the shades up, hoping that some of the ambient and reflected light outside will banish some of the deeper shadows clinging to the corners of the space. Lightning crouches, crawls along the floor to the next window and repeats the process. From this position, she can see into the kitchen around the corner that had obscured her previous view. There’s no one in there.

Lightning feels embarrassment encroaching, but it is still overshadowed by the sense of being watched. Observed. Worse, the gaze feels closer, more malevolent. Her eyes land on the closed bedroom door. She tightens her grip on the hilt of her knife, grabs the doorknob and throws the door open.

Nothing.

The room stands empty, and Lightning moves swiftly across the room to retrieve her Edged Carbine from where it rests beside her bed. Thus armed, Lightning feels her apprehension give way to confidence. There’s still a foreign tension lurking at the base of her spine, and a nagging concern churning in her gut. She checks the bathroom, turning back to the dark apartment beyond the door, determined to properly check and clear it.

Then she hears the footsteps. She white-knuckles the grip of the Edged Carbine, flicks off the safety, bypassing the trigger guard entirely. Stepping out of the bedroom, Lightning levels the Edged Carbine, and shouts, “Don’t move!”

“It’s me!” Snow yelps.

Heart in her throat, Lightning lowers her weapon. One finger twitch and she would’ve made the worst mistake of her life. She gasps, thumbs the safety and throws her arms around Snow’s neck.

“Hey,” he says, fingers combing through her hair in a soothing motion. “What’s all this about?”

She shakes her head, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. Snow’s other hand begins tracing a soothing pattern up and down her spine.

“Why are the lights off, Light?”

“What are you doing back so soon?” she asks, pressing away from his chest.

“How about you answer me first? What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” she sighs. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Why don’t you tell me anyway?”

“I just…it felt like someone was watching me.” Snow’s body goes rigid, head swinging side to side.

“In here?” He moves away and starts searching the apartment.

“There’s no one in here, Snow. I already searched.”

“Well, I’m gonna search it again, alright? Just…humor me.” He flicks on the light in the bedroom, checking the closet and under the bed.

“Snow…there’s no one here.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to make sure.” He squeezes past her back out into the living room, body brushing against her and reminding her that they’d had…plans for when they got back here. Snow goes to check the kitchen, then opens her hall closet, before returning to the front door and checking the locks on it.

Lightning puts her Edged Carbine on the desk beside her door and grabs Snow by the lapels of his ridiculously sexy jacket. Her fingers make quick work of the buttons and she shoves the jacket off him, going to work on the buttons of the black silk shirt he’d been hiding beneath it.

“Someone’s feeling impatient,” Snow grunts with a combination of amusement and arousal. She shuts him up the best way she knows how to: by shoving her tongue in his mouth. He moans, drags her against him then presses her against the door. His fingers find and fumble open the side zipper of her dress, letting it fall to the floor around her feet in a puddle of slinky fabric. Snow lifts her off her feet, and she wraps her legs around his waist.

With a groan of appreciation, Snow pushes off the door, stumbling over to the couch. He falls into the cushions with Lightning still sucking his tongue and straddling his lap. Lightning pushes Snow’s shirt off his shoulders, then lifts her arms to let him pull her camisole over her head. His hands find her breasts and she moans into his mouth.

A shrill sound from her communicator interrupts the moment.

“Leave it,” Snow grunts, mouth bending to her breast.

“Wait. Just wait.”

“Nope. Leave it. Who cares?”

“I do. No one would call this late for no reason.”

“It’s probably a wrong number.”

“Wrong number?” He’s ridiculous. And too fucking tempting. “There’s only ten communicators, Snow, and we know everyone who has one. It can’t be a wrong number.”

“It’s probably Fang fucking with us,” he says, refusing to relinquish his grip. She pries his hands off, climbs off his lap, shrugging on his silk shirt for her trek across the apartment to retrieve the communicator. Snow drops back onto the couch, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes in frustration.

“What’s up, Sazh?” Lightning asks, leaving the communicator on speaker.

Snow groans into his hands, saying “is this your version of punishment for telling you not to bother us early tomorrow? You figured you’d bother us late tonight?”

“We hope we didn’t interrupt anything,” Fang laughs.

“Fuck off, Fang!” Snow grunts, confirming for Fang that they have, in fact, interrupted something.

“Would you give me that, Woman? This is serious!”

“So am I,” Snow grumps.

Lightning puts the communicator down on the end table and sits down next to Snow. His fingers slip under the shirt to trace lazy patterns on her stomach. Lightning sighs, then asks “So what’s the big emergency that you needed to call about at midnight?”

“I’ve got bad news—“

“Don’t tell me: the eldritch horror showed up and we need to kill it tonight.” Lightning is only somewhat joking. Snow gives her a look of disbelief.

“Maybe that’s what was watching you earlier, Light,” Snow jokes, and she slaps him on the arm. He sits up, grabs her hand, drawing her into his arms as he lays back on the couch.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Lightning answers. Snow’s mouth is too busy nuzzling her neck to respond. “He’s just joking.”

“Soldier, was someone at your apartment?”

Lightning heaves a sigh as big as Snow. “No. I checked. Snow checked. No one’s here but us. So, why don’t you tell me what the problem is?”

“Well, I’ve got some…news. Unfortunately, it’s going to take a bit of explaining.”

“When doesn’t it?” Snow gripes. He whispers in her ear, “don’t make any noise.” Then his mouth and hands are on her body through the open shirt, and her temperature is climbing.

Sazh starts explaining…something, but Lightning isn’t paying much attention, distracted as she is by the interplay of soft lips and rough hands over her arousal flushed body. But something Sazh says distracts Snow enough for him to stop and say, “Wait! Say that again.”

Sazh sighs. "Well, we had our suspicions that some elements from PSICOM may have been behind forming or at least training these terrorists. The presence of the Havoc Skytank only bolstered that hypothesis."

“And now?” Snow is now thoroughly engaged in Sazh’s call. He sits up and shifts Lightning off of him and back onto the couch.

"Well, I have contacts who are with the archivists up in Cocoon. We're trying to salvage whatever information we can before we lose that option forever. Once the last of Cocoon's reserves are depleted, it's going to be the broken shell it looks like."

"And what does any of this have to do with those scumbags, Sazh?" Snow snaps, returning his attention – and hands – to her body.

"Alright, calm down. I was just getting to that part. On a hunch, I sent our tightlipped prisoner's DNA profile up to my contact on Cocoon. He searched the records up there, and lo and behold—“

"PSICOM?" Lightning guesses.

"Worse. He's a Sanctum operative. A Seraph, to be precise.”

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Snow shouts. “Fucking Sanctum scum,” he mumbles under his breath.

"There's more."

"Of course there is. There's always more!” Snow says. He’s right. Nothing is ever simple.

"I'm going to give you guys the short-short version of a very long story. A few years back,” Snow groans and falls backward onto the couch again with his face his in hands, “a bunch of women were going missing. Turned up dead. There was a media frenzy about a serial killer. Fast forward, and the Guardian Corps ended up catching the killer, but never released the identity to the public. Something about not giving serial killers the fame they crave.”

"Don't tell me it was this guy!" Snow says, outraged.

"Okay, I won't tell you that. I'm going to tell you it was this guy, and a partner. Apparently one of them had a preference for the hunt, and the other one preferred the…let's be diplomatic and call it 'wet work.'"

"That's diplomatic?" Lightning asks in shock.

"Fuck diplomacy right in its ear.” Snow’s limited patience has run out, and he looks ready to rip something apart with his bare hands.

"Well, I'd rather not enumerate all the disgusting things done to the victims, if you don't mind. I'm sending you the file. You can read it yourselves."

"I think I have a pretty good idea, unfortunately," Snow mutters, shaking his head.

"Sorry, Hero. I really wish—“

"Don't apologize, alright? Just…get on with it."

"Alright, so they were a team, and they were both elite Sanctum Operatives. The stuff they did for Sanctum was so classified that they have no names on file. They're just their ranks, and serial numbers, and their files are classified above top secret. I don’t even know if that information still exists, or if it died with Orphan and Barthandelus. One was a Seraph, one was a Templar. Sanctum locked them away, buried the news — they didn't want the embarrassment — and that was that."

"And should we assume that the Boss is the Templar?" Lightning asks.

"We can’t know for sure, but I would. But it gets worse."

"How could it possibly get worse?" Snow wonders, giving voice to her thoughts as well.

"Hold onto your butts: there was a theory that there was a third partner that was never caught. That was mostly dismissed by the investigators and by the Sanctum itself. And I wouldn't give the theory much credence myself, except someone in the colony ordered our prisoner to be released."

“What did you just say?” Snow asks, to no actual purpose.

"Are you saying that our prisoner is out?” Lightning can’t believe it. Of all the possible outcomes she’d envisioned when she handed over the prisoner, this one never crossed her mind.

"I'm saying he's gone with the wind, my friends."

"So, these guys had someone helping them all along, then? Someone inside the colony? Someone with enough pull to get a terrorist released."

"That's what it looks like. And that's why I'm calling. I just want you both to be alert and careful. I’m going to be there tomorrow to install some better security. And both of you, keep your communicators with you at all times. Just in case."

“Just in case you need to reach us?” Snow asks.

"Just in case someone grabs us?” Lightning guesses, and Snow turns round, horrified eyes to her.

"Stranger things have happened."

"If this guy shows up here, I'm going to kill him," Snow says. "I should've done it already."

They disconnect the call with promises to check in first thing. “I know what you’re thinking,” Lightning says as she sits beside Snow on the couch. He’s coiled and tense, all interest in resuming their earlier activities apparently relegated to the back burner. “You’re thinking that the guy was here earlier.”

“You felt like someone was watching you. I had a bad feeling, which is why I turned around at the corner. Hell yeah, I think that guy is around here somewhere! If he has a contact high up in the colony, that person is going to know exactly where you are.” Snow gets up and walks to the window, drawing the shades closed before peeking through them. “Keep the fucking shades closed. This guy is a sniper.”

“No one is here except us. Let’s just…forget about it for tonight,” Lightning says, wrapping her arms around Snow from behind. He’s rigid, muscles bunched with tension and anger. She lays wet kisses from his shoulder to the nape of his neck.

“This guy hit you. He shot you. He locked you up to be used by a bunch of savages. I’m not going to give this guy the opportunity to hurt you again.”

“They’re not going to hurt anyone again. I’m going after them,” Lightning declares.

“ _We’re_ going after them,” Snow insists. “From now on, we’re a team. Right? You trust me, don’t you?” He holds his hand out to her.

It’s nothing they haven’t said before, and yet, Lightning knows that this answer will mean much more. Their love is in its infancy, a new layer built atop a year’s worth of camaraderie and teamwork, and yet, there are traces of it present even in the very bedrock of the relationship between them; veins and arteries woven through, fibers driven deep enough that any attempt to remove this new layer would cause irreparable harm to the rest.

No, Snow is not proposing marriage to her, to her great relief, and yet, what he is asking of her is, in many ways, much scarier. He already knows that she trusts him with her life, yet he’s just asked her to reaffirm her trust in him. Earlier in the day, Snow had alluded to this very thing, implying but never outright stating that Lightning didn’t fully trust him. And that’s what he’s asking for right now: her full trust not only with her back, and her life, but with her heart as well.

Lightning doesn’t have to ponder long. She takes Snow’s hand, steps into his embrace and gives him the most honest answer she has: “I love you.”

And that is that.

* * *

 _X  
_ _Almost, at times, the Fool_

Much later, Lightning rolls over and says to Snow, “You know what? You were right.”

“Course I was,” he murmurs. Then: “’bout what?”

“He really is Evil Henchmen Number two!” Snow bursts out laughing before dragging her mouth down to meet his.

* * *

 _Coda  
_ _Some talk of you and me_

“No, I didn’t get her tonight. Lover boy never went home. He dropped her off – I left her there figuring to get her after – and headed to his place to wait for him. He never showed.”

“Well, you missed your chance. They know you’re out, and you’re not going to get another opportunity to snatch her. Time to abort.”

“Come on! I can save this! These two are so wrapped up in each other, they won’t notice me until it’s too late!”

“No. We have orders to leave it for now. We need to regroup. He’s pissed off, and we can’t afford to lose his support.”

“Fuck him! We don’t need him anymore!”

“He’s the reason you weren’t executed. He’s the reason we have the information we’ve got on the Archeopolis. We have to hold off for a while on these two and our hunts until we can rebuild.”

“He needs us more than we need him. We can blow up his whole life here.”

“If you even think about it, I’ll kill you myself. There’s plans that you don’t know about, because you didn’t want to worry about anything but hunting. I let you hunt.”

“Like that was some big hardship for you!”

“Never said it was. Like my ma always said: do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

“Your ma sounds like a smart lady.”

“She was. The only woman I met who’s worth the oxygen she consumed.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Fall back to the secondary rendezvous point. I’ll meet you there in 36 hours. Until then, don’t get caught. We’re not going to be able to play the bureaucracy and red tape card to get you out of a second arrest, you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Stay away from the marks. You got me?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll get ‘em eventually. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's really it. Do I Dare Disturb the Universe? is done. As for the ending - am I baiting a sequel? I don't know. Maybe? If there's interest to read it, perhaps I'd be interested in writing it. 
> 
> I'd always intended for Lightning to disappear at the end of this story as a tie in - sort of - to FFXIII-2. (This story was started prior to that game being released and all we knew at the time was that Lightning disappeared after the events of FFXIII and that Snow went after her. It tied in perfectly with my intentions for the end of this story, and would've allowed it to remain mostly canon. With the exception of the pairing. Hell, I even considered throwing in Noel with Serah in an epilogue, to really tie it in.) 
> 
> Over the years, I decided I wanted a little bit of hope and happiness for at least one of my stories. I feel like Snow and Lightning went through enough in this story to have earned more than one night together, and I just wanted to offer everyone a bit of fun to round out an otherwise angst-filled story.
> 
> The eldritch horror is the actual tie in to canon. I specifically didn't identify it so you can assume it's whomever you choose. (Unless and until I write another story.) If you want to assume canon happens from this point, go for it. It's not perfect (obviously), but it can fit well enough.
> 
> I happen to really enjoy Snow and Lightning together, so I may have their continuing adventures. Or I may just write them into one of the other stories (Not Evolution.)
> 
> I want to thank everyone for reading, and especially thank those readers who took the time to share their thoughts on the progress of the story. If it weren't for you, I most likely would've left this as an abandoned story, instead of a zombie fic.


End file.
